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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Negro Poets
and Their Poems, by Robert T. Kerlin.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60003 ***</div>
<hr class="full" />
<p class="figcenter">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="[Image of
the book's cover unavailable.]" />
</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""
style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%;
padding:1%;">
<tr><td>
<p class="c"><a href="#CONTENTS"><span class="smcap">Contents</span>.</a><br />
<a href="#INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND"><span class="smcap">Index of Authors</span></a>.<br />
<a href="#INDEX_OF_TITLES"><span class="smcap">Index of Titles</span></a>.<br />
<a href="#ILLUSTRATIONS"><span class="smcap">List of Illustrations</span></a><br /> <span class="nonvis">(In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers]
clicking on the image will bring up a larger version.)</span></p>
<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr>
</table>
<p class="c">NEGRO POETS<br />
AND THEIR POEMS</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i">{i}</a></span> </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii">{ii}</a></span> </p>
<div class="figcenter"><a name="ill_001" id="ill_001"></a>
<a href="images/i_frontispiece_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_frontispiece_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p>
EMANCIPATION<br />
By<br />
<span class="smcap">Meta Warrick Fuller</span><br />
</p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii">{iii}</a></span> </p>
<h1>
NEGRO POETS<br />
AND THEIR POEMS</h1>
<p class="c">BY<br />
ROBERT T. KERLIN<br /><small>
AUTHOR OF “THE VOICE OF THE NEGRO”</small>
</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Still comes the Perfect Thing to man<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As came the olden gods, in dreams.<br /></span>
<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">J. Mord Allen.</span><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="c">
<i>ILLUSTRATED</i><br />
<br />
<br />
ASSOCIATED PUBLISHERS, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span>,<br />
WASHINGTON, D. C.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv">{iv}</a></span><br />
<br />
Copyright, 1923,<br />
By<br />
THE ASSOCIATED PUBLISHERS, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v">{v}</a></span></p>
<p>To the Black and Unknown Bards who gave to the world the priceless
treasure of those “canticles of love and woe,” the camp-meeting
Spirituals; more particularly, to those untaught singers of the old
plantations of the South, whose melodious lullabies to the babes of both
races entered with genius-quickening power into the souls of Poe and
Lanier, Dunbar and Cotter: to them, for whom any monument in stone or
bronze were but mockery, I dedicate this monument of verse, budded by
the children of their vision.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vi" id="page_vi">{vi}</a></span> </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii">{vii}</a></span> </p>
<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td colspan="4"> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Preface</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_xiii">xiii</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Present-Day Negro Heritage of Song</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Untaught Melodies: Folk Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_4">4</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">The Spirituals</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_6">6</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">The Seculars</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_12">12</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">The Earlier Poetry of Art</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_20">20</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Jupiter Hammon and Phillis Wheatley</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_20">20</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Charles L. Reason</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_24">24</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">George Moses Horton</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_25">25</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Frances E. W. Harper</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_26">26</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James Madison Bell and Albery A. Whitman</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_32">32</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Paul Laurence Dunbar</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_37">37</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">J. Mord Allen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_48">48</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Present Renaissance of the Negro</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_51">51</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">A Glance at the Field</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_51">51</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Some Representatives of the Present Era</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_70">70</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_viii" id="page_viii">{viii}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">The Cotters, Father and Son</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_70">70</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James David Corrothers</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_85">85</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">A Group of Singing Johnsons:</td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">James Weldon Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_90">90</a></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Charles Bertram Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Fenton Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Adolphus Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_104">104</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">William Stanley Braithwaite</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_105">105</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">George Reginald Margetson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_109">109</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">William Moore</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_111">111</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">8.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Walter Everette Hawkins</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_119">119</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">9.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Claude McKay</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_126">126</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">10.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Leslie Pinckney Hill</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_131">131</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Heart of Negro Womanhood</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Miss Eva A. Jessye</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. J. W. Hammond</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Miss Angelina W. Grimké</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_152">152</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Anne Spencer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_156">156</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Miss Jessie Fauset</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_160">160</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Ad Astra per Aspera</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Per Aspera</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Edward Smythe Jones</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ix" id="page_ix">{ix}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Raymond Garfield Dandridge</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_169">169</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">George Marion McClellan</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_173">173</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Charles P. Wilson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_179">179</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Leon R. Harris</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_180">180</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Irvin W. Underhill</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Ad Astra</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James C. Hughes</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Leland Milton Fisher</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">W. Clarence Jordan</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Roscoe C. Jamison</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_191">191</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The New Forms of Poetry</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Free Verse</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Will Sexton</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Andrea Razafkeriefo</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Langston Hughes</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_200">200</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Prose Poems</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">W. E. Burghardt DuBois</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Kelly Miller</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_206">206</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Charles H. Conner</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_209">209</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">William Edgar Bailey</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_213">213</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">R. Nathaniel Dett</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_214">214</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Dialect Verse</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_218">218</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Waverly Turner Carmichael</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_219">219</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_220">220</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Raymond Garfield Dandridge</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_221">221</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Sterling M. Means</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_x" id="page_x">{x}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">J. Mord Allen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_223">223</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James Weldon Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Theodore Henry Shackleford</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_228">228</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Poetry of Protest</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_229">229</a></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Lucian B. Watkins</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr>
<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a></th></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Miscellaneous</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Eulogistic Poems</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Commemorative and Occasional Poems</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_254">254</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="smcap"><a href="#INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND">Index of Authors, with Biographical and Bibliographical Notes</a></span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_269">269</a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="smcap"><a href="#INDEX_OF_TITLES">Index of Titles</a></span>:
<a href="#A">A</a>,
<a href="#B">B</a>,
<a href="#C">C</a>,
<a href="#D">D</a>,
<a href="#E">E</a>,
<a href="#F">F</a>,
<a href="#G">G</a>,
<a href="#H">H</a>,
<a href="#I">I</a>,
<a href="#J">J</a>,
<a href="#L">L</a>,
<a href="#M">M</a>,
<a href="#N">N</a>,
<a href="#O">O</a>,
<a href="#P">P</a>,
<a href="#R">R</a>,
<a href="#S">S</a>,
<a href="#T">T</a>,
<a href="#V">V</a>,
<a href="#W">W</a>,
<a href="#Y">Y</a>,
<a href="#Z">Z</a> </td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_281">281</a></td></tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xi" id="page_xi">{xi}</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_001">Emancipation, by Meta V. W. Fuller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#ill_001"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_002">Inspiration, by Meta V. W. Fuller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_11">11</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_003">Dancers</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_16">16</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_004">Phillis Wheatley</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_23">23</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_005">Charles L. Reason</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_24">24</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_006">Frances E. W. Harper</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_27">27</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_007">James Madison Bell</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_33">33</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_008">Paul Laurence Dunbar</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_38">38</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_009">Ethiopia—Awakening, by Meta V. W. Fuller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_45">45</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_010">Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_70">70</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_011">Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_012">J. D. Corrothers</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_86">86</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_013">James Weldon Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_91">91</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_014">Charles Bertram Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_015">George Reginald Margetson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_110">110</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_016">Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_017">Walter Everette Hawkins</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_121">121</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_018">Claude McKay</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_126">126</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_019">Leslie Pinckney Hill</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_131">131</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xii" id="page_xii">{xii}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_020">Eva A. Jessye</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_021">Mrs. J. W. Hammond</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_022">Alice Dunbar Nelson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_145">145</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_023">Mrs. G. D. Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_024">Angelina Grimké</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_152">152</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_025">Mrs. Anne Spencer</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_157">157</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_026">Jessie Redmon Fauset</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_160">160</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_027">Edward Smythe Jones</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_028">Raymond G. Dandridge</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_169">169</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_029">George M. McClellan</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_173">173</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_030">Leon R. Harris</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_181">181</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_031">Irvin W. Underhill</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_032">Roscoe C. Jamison</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_192">192</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_033">Langston Hughes</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_199">199</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_034">W. E. B. Du Bois</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_035">Kelly Miller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_206">206</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_036">Charles H. Conner</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_210">210</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_037">R. Nathaniel Dett</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_215">215</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_038">Theodore H. Shackleford</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_228">228</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_039">Equality and Justice for All, from the Schurz Monument</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_229">229</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_040">Lucian B. Watkins</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_041">Mae Smith Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xiii" id="page_xiii">{xiii}</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2>
<p><i>Ad astra per aspera</i>—that is the old Roman adage. Magnificent is it,
and magnificently is it being in these days exemplified by the American
Negroes, particularly by the increasing number of educated and talented
American Negroes, and most particularly by those who feel the urge to
express in song the emotions and aspirations of their people. A
surprisingly large number is this class. Without exhausting the
possibilities of selection I have quoted in this anthology of
contemporary Negro poetry sixty odd writers of tolerable verse that
exhibits, besides form, at least one fundamental quality of poetry,
namely, passion.</p>
<p>The mere number, large as it is, would of course not signify by itself.
Nor does the phrase “tolerable verse,” cautiously chosen, seem to
promise much. What this multitude means, and whether the verse be worthy
of a more complimentary description, I leave to the reader’s judgment.
Quality of expression and character of content are of course the
prepotent considerations.</p>
<p>While, in a preliminary section, I have passed in review the poetry of
the Negro up to and including Dunbar, not neglecting the old religious
songs of the plantation, or “Spirituals,” and the dance, play, and
nursery rhymes, or “Seculars,” yet strictly speaking this is a
representation of new Negro voices, an anthology of present-day Negro
verse, with biographical items and critical, or at least appreciative
comment.</p>
<p>I wish most heartily to express my obligations to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xiv" id="page_xiv">{xiv}</a></span> publishers and
authors of the volumes I have drawn upon for selections. They are named
in the Index and Biographical and Bibliographical Notes at the end of
the text. But for the reader’s convenience I collect their names here:</p>
<p>Richard E. Badger, publisher of Walter Everette Hawkins’s <i>Chords and
Discords</i>; A. B. Caldwell, Atlanta, Ga., publisher of Sterling M. Means’
<i>The Deserted Cabin and Other Poems</i>; the Cornhill Company, publishers
of Waverley Turner Carmichael’s <i>From the Heart of a Folk</i>; Joseph S.
Cotter’s <i>The Band of Gideon</i>; Georgia Douglas Johnson’s <i>The Heart of a
Woman</i>; Charles Bertram Johnson’s <i>Songs of My People</i>; James Weldon
Johnson’s <i>Fifty Years and Other Poems</i>; Joshua Henry Jones’s <i>Poems of
the Four Seas</i>; Dodd, Mead and Company, publishers of Dunbar’s <i>Poems</i>;
the Grafton Press, publishers of H. Cordelia Ray’s <i>Poems</i>; Harcourt,
Brace & Company, publishers of W. E. Burghardt DuBois’s <i>Darkwater</i>;
Pritchard and Ovington’s <i>The Upward Path</i>; the Macmillan Company,
publishers of Thomas W. Talley’s <i>Negro Folk Rhymes</i>; the Neale
Publishing Company, publishers of Kelley Miller’s <i>Out of the House of
Bondage</i>; J. L. Nichols & Company, Naperville, Ill., publishers of Mrs.
Dunbar-Nelson’s <i>The Dunbar Speaker and Entertainer</i>, and <i>The Life and
Works of Paul Laurence Dunbar</i>; the Stratford Company, publishers of
Joshua Henry Jones’s <i>The Heart of the World and Other Poems</i>; and
Leslie Pinckney Hill’s <i>The Wings of Oppression</i>. It is with their kind
permission I am privileged to use selections from the books named. To
<i>The Crisis</i>, <i>The Favorite Magazine</i>, and <i>The Messenger</i>, I am
indebted for several selections, which I gratefully acknowledge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xv" id="page_xv">{xv}</a></span></p>
<p>To readers who are disposed to study the poetry of the Negro I would
commend Dr. James Weldon Johnson’s <i>The Book of American Negro Poetry</i>
(Harcourt, Brace & Co.) and Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg’s <i>A Bibliographical
Checklist of American Negro Poetry</i> (Charles F. Hartman, New York). I am
indebted to both these books and authors. To Mr. Schomburg I am also
indebted for the loan of many of the pictures of the earlier poets.</p>
<p class="r">
R. T. K.<br />
</p>
<p class="nind">
West Chester, Pa.<br />
March 22, 1923.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xvi" id="page_xvi">{xvi}</a></span></p>
<h1>NEGRO POETS AND<br /> THEIR POEMS</h1>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br /><br />
<small>THE NEGROES HERITAGE OF SONG</small></h2>
<p><span class="smcap">As</span> an empire may grow up within an empire without observation so a
republic of letters within a republic of letters. That thing is
happening today in this land of ours. A literature of significance on
many accounts, and not without various and considerable merits. Its
producers are Negroes. Culture, talent, genius—or something very like
it—are theirs. Nor is it “the mantle of Dunbar” they wrap themselves
in, but an unborrowed singing robe, that better fits “the New Negro.”
The list of names in poetry alone would stretch out, were I to start
telling them over, until I should bring suspicion upon myself as no
trustworthy reporter. Besides, the mere names would mean nothing, since,
as intimated, this little republic has grown up unobserved in our big
one.</p>
<p>It may be more for the promise held forth by their thin little volumes
than for the intrinsic merit of their performance that we should esteem
the verse-makers represented in this survey of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> contemporary Negro
poetry. Yet on many grounds they should receive candid attention, both
from the students of literature and the students of sociology.
Recognition of real literary merit will be accorded by the one class of
students, and recognition of new aspects of the most serious race
problem of the ages will be forced upon the second class. Justification
enough for the present survey and exhibition will be acknowledged by all
who are earnestly concerned either with literature or with life.</p>
<p>Perhaps, unconsciously, in my comments and estimates I have not
steadfastly kept before me absolute standards of poetry. But where and
when was this ever done? Doubtless in critiques of master poets by
master critics, and only there. In writing of contemporary verse, by
courtesy called poetry, we compromise, our estimates are relative, we
make allowances, our approvals and disapprovals are toned according to
the known circumstances of production. And this is right.</p>
<p>If the prospective reader opens this volume with the demand in his mind
for novelty of language, form, imagery, idea—novelty and quaintness,
perhaps amusing “originality”, or grotesqueness—let him reflect how
unreasonable a similar demand on the part of English critics was a
century ago relative to the beginnings of American poetry. Were not
American poets products of the same culture as their contemporaries in
England? What other language had they than the language<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> of Shakespeare
and Wordsworth, Keats and Tennyson? The same is essentially true of the
American Negro—or the Negro American, if you choose. He is the heir of
Anglo-Saxon culture, he has been nurtured in the same spiritual soil as
his contemporary of the white race, the same traditions of language,
form, imagery, and idea are his. Everything possible has been done to
stamp out his own African traditions and native propensities. Therefore,
let no unreasonable demand be laid upon these Negro rhymers.</p>
<p>Notwithstanding, something distinctive, and something uniquely
significant, may be discerned in these verse productions to reward the
perusal. But this may not be the reader’s chief reward. That may be his
discovery, that, after all, a wonderful likeness rather than unlikeness
to the poetry of other races looks forth from this poetry of the
children of Ham. A valuable result would this be, should it follow.</p>
<p>Before attempting a survey of the field of contemporary verse it will
advantage us to cast a backward glance upon the poetic traditions of the
Negro, to see what is the present-day Negro poet’s heritage of song.
These traditions will be reviewed in two sections: 1. Untaught Melodies;
2. The Poetry of Art. This backward glance will comprehend all that was
sung or written by colored people from Jupiter Hammon to Paul Laurence
Dunbar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span></p>
<h3>I. <span class="smcap">Untaught Melodies</span></h3>
<p>The Negro might well be expected to exhibit a gift for poetry. His gift
for oratory has long been acknowledged. The fact has been accepted
without reflection upon its significance. It should have been foreseen
that because of the close kinship between oratory and poetry the Negro
would some day, with more culture, achieve distinction in the latter
art, as he had already achieved distinction in the former art. The
endowments which make for distinction in these two great kindred arts,
it must also be remarked, have not been properly esteemed in the Negro.
In other races oratory and poetry have been accepted as the tokens of
noble qualities of character, lofty spiritual gifts. Such they are, in
all races. They spring from mankind’s supreme spiritual impulses, from
mankind’s loftiest aspirations—the aspirations for freedom, for
justice, for virtue, for honor and distinction.</p>
<p>That these impulses, these aspirations, and these endowments are in the
American Negro and are now exhibiting themselves in verse—it is this I
wish to show to the skeptically minded. It will readily be admitted that
the Negro nature is endowed above most others, if not all others, in
fervor of feeling, in the completeness of self-surrender to emotion.
Hence we see that marvelous display of rhythm in the individual and in
the group. This capacity of submission to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> higher harmony, a grander
power, than self, affords the explanation of mankind’s highest reaches
of thought, supreme insights, and noblest expressions. Rhythm is its
manifestation. It is the most central and compulsive law of the
universe. The rhythmic soul falls into harmony and co-operation with the
universal creative energy. It therefore becomes a creative soul. Rhythm
visibly takes hold of the Negro and sways his entire being. It makes him
one with the universal Power that Goethe describes, in famous lines, as
“at the roaring loom of time, weaving for God the garment thou seest him
by.”</p>
<p>But fervor of feeling must have some originating cause. That cause is a
conception—the vivid, concrete presentation of an object or idea to the
mind. The Negro has this endowment also. Ideas enter his mind with a
vividness and power which betoken an extraordinary faculty of
imagination. The graphic originality of language commonly exhibited by
the Negro would be sufficient proof of this were other proof wanting. No
one will deny to the Negro this gift. Whoever has listened to a colored
preacher’s sermon, either of the old or the new school, will recall
perhaps more than one example of poetic phrasing, more than one
word-picture, that rendered some idea vivid beyond vanishing. It no
doubt has been made, in the ignorant or illiterate, an object of jest,
just as the other two endowments have been; but these three gifts are
the three supreme gifts of the poet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> and the poet is the supreme
outcome of the race: power of feeling, power of imagination, power of
expression—and these make the poet.</p>
<h4><i>1. The Spirituals</i></h4>
<p>As a witness of the Negro’s untutored gift for song there are the
Spirituals, his “canticles of love and woe,” chanted wildly, in that
darkness which only a few rays from heaven brightened. Since they
afford, as it were, a background for the song of cultured art which now
begins to appear, I must here give a word to these crude old plantation
songs. They are one of the most notable contributions of any people,
similarly circumstanced, to the world’s treasury of song, altogether the
most appealing. Their significance for history and for art—more
especially for art—awaits interpretation. There are signs that this
interpretation is not far in the future. Dvorak, the Bohemian, aided by
the Negro composer, Harry T. Burleigh, may have heralded, in his “New
World Symphony,” the consummate achievement of the future which shall be
entirely the Negro’s. Had Samuel Coleridge-Taylor been an American
instead of an English Negro, this theme rather than the Indian theme
might have occupied his genius—the evidence whereof is that, removed as
he was from the scenes of plantation life and the tribulations of the
slaves, yet that life and those tribulations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> touched his heart and
found a place, though a minor one, in his compositions.</p>
<p>But the sister art of poetry may anticipate music in the great feat of
embodying artistically the yearning, suffering, prayerful soul of the
African in those centuries when he could only with patience endure and
trust in God—and wail these mournfullest of melodies. Some lyrical
drama like “Prometheus Bound,” but more touching as being more human;
some epic like “Paradise Lost,” but nearer to the common heart of man,
and more lyrical; some “Divina Commedia,” that shall be the voice of
those silent centuries of slavery, as Dante’s poem was the voice of the
long-silent epoch preceding it, or some lyrical “passion play” like that
of Oberammergau, is the not improbable achievement of some descendant of
the slaves.</p>
<p>In a poem of tender appeal, James Weldon Johnson has celebrated the
“black and unknown bards,” who, without art, and even without letters,
produced from their hearts, weighed down with sorrows, the immortal
Spirituals:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O black and unknown bards of long ago,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How came your lips to touch the sacred fire?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How, in your darkness, did you come to know<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The power and beauty of the minstrel’s lyre?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who first from out the still watch, lone and long,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song?<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>So begins this noble tribute to the nameless natural poets whose hearts,
touched as a harp by the Divine Spirit, gave forth “Swing Low, Sweet
Chariot,” and “Nobody Knows de Trouble I See,” “Steal Away to Jesus,”
and “Roll, Jordan, Roll.”</p>
<p>Great praise does indeed rightly belong to that black slave-folk who
gave to the world this treasure of religious song. To the world, I say,
for they belong as truly to the whole world as do the quaint and
incomparable animal stories of Uncle Remus. Their appeal is to every
human heart, but especially to the heart that has known great sorrow and
which looks to God for help.</p>
<p>It is only of late their meaning has begun to dawn upon us—their
tragic, heart-searching meaning. Who in hearing these Spirituals sung
to-day by the heirs of their creators can doubt what they meant when
they were wailed in the quarters or shouted in wild frenzy in the
camp-meetings of the slaves? Even the broken, poverty-stricken English
adds infinitely to the pathos:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’m walking on borrowed land,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This world ain’t none of my home.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We’ll stand the storm, it won’t be long.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, walk together children,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Don’t get weary.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My heavenly home is bright and fair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor pain nor death can enter there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, steal away and pray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’m looking for my Jesus.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, freedom! oh, freedom! oh, freedom over me!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ before I’d be a slave,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll be buried in my grave,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And go home to my Lord an’ be free.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Not a word here but had two meanings for the slave, a worldly one and a
spiritual one, and only one meaning, the spiritual one, for the
master—who gladly saw this religious frenzy as an emotional
safety-valve.</p>
<p>In certain aspects these Spirituals suggest the songs of Zion, the
Psalms. Trouble is the mother of song, particularly of religious song.
In trouble the soul cries out to God—“a very present help in time of
trouble.” The Psalms and the Spirituals alike rise <i>de profundis</i>. But
in one respect the songs of the African slaves differ from the songs of
Israel in captivity: there is no prayer for vengeance in the Spirituals,
no vindictive spirit ever even suggested. We can but wonder now at this.
For slavery at its best was degrading, cruel, and oppressive. Yet no
imprecation, such as mars so many a beautiful Psalm, ever found its way
into a plantation Spiritual. A convincing testimony this to that spirit
in the African slave which Christ, by precept and example, sought to
establish in His disciples. If the Negro in our present day is growing
bitter toward the white race, it behooves us to inquire why it is so, in
view of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> indisputable patience, meekness, and good-nature. We might
find in our present régime a more intolerable cruelty than belonged even
to slavery, if we investigated honestly. There is certainly a bitter and
vindictive tone in much of the Afro-American verse now appearing in the
colored press. For both races it augurs ill.</p>
<p>But I have not yet indicated the precise place of these Spirituals in
the world’s treasury of song. They have a close kinship with the Psalms
but a yet closer one with the chanted prayers of the primitive
Christians, the Christians when they were the outcasts of the Roman
Empire when to be a Christian was to be a martyr. In secret places, in
catacombs, they sent up their triumphant though sorrowful songs, they
chanted their litanies</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i6">“—that came<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like the volcano’s tongue of flame<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Up from the burning core below—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The canticles of love and woe.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>So indeed came the Spirituals of the African slave. These songs might in
truth, to use a figure of the old poets, be called the melodious tears
of those who wailed them. An African proverb says, “We weep in our
hearts like the tortoise.” In their hearts—so wept the slaves, silently
save for these mournful cries in melody. Without means of defense, save
a nature armored with faith, when assailed, insulted, oppressed, they
could but imitate the tortoise when he shuts himself up in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"><a name="ill_002" id="ill_002"></a>
<a href="images/i_011_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_011_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Inspiration</span></p>
<p><i>By Meta Warrick Fuller</i></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span></p>
<p class="nind">shell and patiently takes the blows that fall. The world knew not then,
nor fully knows now—partly because of African buoyancy, pliability, and
optimism—what tears they wept. These Spirituals are the golden vials
spoken of in Holy Writ, “full of odors, which are the prayers of
saints”—an everlasting memorial before the throne of God. Other vials
there are, different from these, and they, too, are at God’s right hand.</p>
<p>A Negro sculptor, Mrs. Meta Warrick Fuller, not knowing of this proverb
about the tortoise which has only recently been brought from Africa, but
simply interpreting Negro life in America, has embodied the very idea of
the African saying in bronze. Under the title “Secret Sorrow” a man is
represented as eating his own heart.</p>
<p>The interpretation in art of the Spirituals, or a poetry of art
developed along the lines and in the spirit of those songs, is something
we may expect the black singers of no distant day to produce. Already we
have many a poem that offers striking reminiscences of them.</p>
<h4><i>2. The Seculars</i></h4>
<p>But other songs the Negro has which are more noteworthy from the point
of view of art than the Spirituals: songs that are richer in artistic
effects, more elaborate in form, more varied and copious in expression.
These are the Negro’s secular songs and rhymes, his dance, play, and
love-making songs, his gnomic and nursery<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> rhymes.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> It is not
exaggeration to say that in rhythmic and melodic effects they surpass
any other body of folk-verse whatsoever. In wit, wisdom, and quaint
turns of humor no other folk-rhymes equal them. Prolific, too, in such
productions the race seems to have been, since so many at this late day
were to be found.</p>
<p>It comes not within the scope of this anthology to include any of these
folk-rhymes of the elder day, but a few specimens seem necessary to
indicate to the young Negro who would be a poet his rich heritage of
song and to the white reader what essentially poetic traits the Negro
has by nature. It was “black and unknown bards,” slaves, too, who sang
or said these rhymes:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh laugh an’ sing an’ don’t git tired.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We’s all gwine home, some Mond’y,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To de honey pond an’ fritter trees;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ ev’ry day’ll be Sund’y.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Pride, too, and a sense of values had the Negro, bond or free:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My name’s Ran, I wuks in de san’;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But I’d druther be a Nigger dan a po’ white man.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Gwinter hitch my oxes side by side,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ take my gal fer a big fine ride.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>After a description of anticipated pleasures and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> a comic interlude in
dialogue, the ballad from which these two couplets are taken concludes
with that varied repetition of the first stanza which we find so
effective in the poems of art:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’d druther be a Nigger, an’ plow ole Beck,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dan a white Hill Billy wid his long red neck.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Song or rhyme was, as ever, heart’s ease to the Negro in every trouble.
Here are two rhymes that “pack up” and put away two common troubles:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She writ me a letter<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As long as my eye.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ she say in dat letter:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“My Honey!—Good-by!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dem whitefolks say dat money talk.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If it talk lak dey tell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Den ev’ry time it come to Sam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It up an’ say: “Farewell!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Going to the nursery—it was the one room of the log cabin, or the great
out-of-doors—we find the old-time Negro’s head filled with a <i>Mother
Goose</i> more enchanting than any printed and pictured one in the “great
house” of the white child:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">W’en de big owl whoops,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">An’ de screech owl screeks,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">An’ de win’ makes a howlin’ sound;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You liddle woolly heads<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Had better kiver up,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Caze de “hants” is comin’ ’round.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">A, B, C,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Doubled down D;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’se so lazy you cain’t see me.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">A, B, C,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Doubled down D;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Lazy Chilluns gits hick’ry tea.<br /></span>
<span class="ispc">****<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Buck an’ Berry run a race,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Buck fall down an’ skin his face.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Buck an’ Berry in a stall;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Buck, he try to eat it all.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Buck, he e’t too much, you see.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So he died wid choleree.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>But it is in the dance songs that rhythm in its perfection makes itself
felt and that repetends are employed with effects which another Poe or
Lanier might appropriate for supreme art. A lively scene and gay
frolicsome movements are conjured up by the following dance songs:</p>
<p class="cpom">CHICKEN IN THE BREAD TRAY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Auntie, will yo’ dog bite?”—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“No, Chile! No!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chicken in de bread tray<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A makin’ up dough.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Auntie, will yo’ broom hit?”—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Yes, Chile!” Pop!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chicken in de bread tray;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Flop! Flop! Flop!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Auntie, will yo’ oven bake?”—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Yes. Jes fry!”—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“What’s dat chicken good fer?”—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Pie! Pie! Pie!”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Auntie, is yo’ pie good?”—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Good as you could ’spec’.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chicken in de bread tray;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Peck! Peck! Peck!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter"><a name="ill_003" id="ill_003"></a>
<a href="images/i_016_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_016_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Dancers</span></p></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">JUBA</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Juba dis, an’ Juba dat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Juba skin dat Yaller Cat. Juba! Juba!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Juba jump an’ Juba sing.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Juba cut dat Pigeon’s Wing. Juba! Juba!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Juba, kick off Juba’s shoe.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Juba, dance dat Jubal Jew. Juba! Juba!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Juba, whirl dat foot about.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Juba, blow dat candle out. Juba! Juba!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Juba circle, Raise de Latch.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Juba do dat Long Dog Scratch. Juba! Juba!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Out of the pastime group I take a rhyme that is typically full of
character, delicious in its wit and proverbial lore:</p>
<p class="cpom">FATTENING FROGS FOR SNAKES</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You needn’ sen’ my gal hoss apples,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You needn’ sen’ her ’lasses candy;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She would keer fer de lak o’ you,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ef you’d sen’ her apple brandy.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">W’y don’t you git some common sense?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Jes git a liddle! Oh fer land sakes!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quit yo’ foolin’, she hain’t studyin’ you!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Youse jes fattenin’ frogs fer snakes!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In the love songs one finds that mingling of pathos and humor so
characteristic of the Negro. The one example I shall give lacks nothing
of art—some unknown Dunbar, some black Bobbie Burns, must have composed
it:</p>
<p class="cpom">SHE HUGGED ME AND KISSED ME</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I see’d her in de Springtime,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I see’d her in de Fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I see’d her in de Cotton patch,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A cameing from de Ball.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She hug me, an’ she kiss me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She wrung my han’ an’ cried.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She said I wus de sweetes’ thing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dat ever lived or died.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She hug me an’ she kiss me.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh Heaben! De touch o’ her han’!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She said I wus de puttiest thing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In de shape o’ mortal man.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I told her dat I love her,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dat my love wus bed-cord strong;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Den I axed her w’en she’d have me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ she jes say, “Go long!”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In a very striking way these folk-songs of the plantation suggest the
old English folk-songs of unknown authorship and origin—the ancient
traditional ballads, long despised and neglected, but ever living on and
loved in the hearts of the people. This unstudied poetry of the people,
the unlettered common folk, had supreme virtues, the elemental and
universal virtues of simplicity, sincerity, veracity. It had the power,
in an artificial age, to bring poetry back to reality, to genuine
emotion, to effectiveness, to the common interests of mankind. Simple
and crude as it was it had a merit unknown to the polished verse of the
schools. Potential Negro poets might do well to ponder this fact of
literary history. There is nothing more precious in English literature
than this crude old poetry of the people.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p>
<p>There is a book of rhymes which, every Christmas season, is the favorite
gift, the most gladly received, of all that Santa Claus brings. Nor so
at Christmas only; it is a perennial pleasure, a boon to all children,
young and old in years. This book is <i>Mother Goose’s Melodies</i>. How many
“immortal” epics of learned poets it has outlived! How many dainty
volumes of polished lyrics has this humble book of “rhymes” seen vanish
to the dusty realms of dark oblivion! In every home it has a place and
is cherished. Its contents are better known and more loved than the
contents of any other book. Untutored, nameless poets, nature-inspired,
gave this priceless boon to all generations of children, and to all
sorts and conditions—an immortal book. As a life-long teacher and
student of poetry, I venture, with no fear, the assertion that from no
book of verse in our language can the whole art of poetry be so
effectively learned as from <i>Mother Goose’s Melodies</i>. Every device of
rhyme, and melody, and rhythm, and tonal color is exemplified here in a
manner to produce the effects which all the great artists in verse aim
at. This book that we all love—and patronize—is the greatest melodic
triumph in the white man’s literature.</p>
<p>Of like merit and certainly no less are the folk rhymes and songs, both
the Spirituals and the Seculars, of the Negro. Their art potentialities
are immense. Well may the aspirant to fame in poetry put these songs in
his memory and peruse<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> them as Burns did the old popular songs of
Scotland, to make them yield suggestions of songs at the highest reach
of art.</p>
<h3>II. <span class="smcap">The Poetry of Art</span></h3>
<p>But another heritage of song, not so crude nor yet so precious as the
Spirituals and the Folk Rhymes has the Negro of to-day. That heritage
comes from enslaved and emancipated men and women who by some means or
another learned to write and publish their compositions. Although the
intrinsic value of this heritage of song cannot be rated high, yet,
considering the circumstances of its production, the colored people of
America may well take pride in it. Its incidental value can hardly be
overestimated. In it is the most infallible record we have of the
Negro’s inner life in bondage and in the years following emancipation.
Never broken was the tradition from Jupiter Hammon and Phillis Wheatley,
in the last half of the eighteenth century, to Paul Laurence Dunbar and
Joseph Seamon Cotter, in the end of the nineteenth, but constantly
enriched by an increasing number of men and women who sought in the form
of verse a record of their sufferings and yearnings, consolations and
hopes.</p>
<h4><i>1. Jupiter Hammon and Phillis Wheatley</i></h4>
<p>Jupiter Hammon was the first American Negro poet of whom any record
exists. His first extant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> poem, “An Evening Thought,” bears the date of
1760, preceding therefore any poem by Phillis Wheatley, his
contemporary, by nine years. Following the title of the poem this
information is given: “Composed by Jupiter Hammon, a Negro belonging to
Mr. Lloyd, of Queen’s Village, on Long Island, the 25th of December,
1760.” With this poem of eighty-eight rhyming lines, printed on a
double-column broadside, entered the American Negro into American
literature. For that reason alone, were his stanzas inferior to what
they are, I should include some of them in this anthology. But the truth
is that, as “religious” poetry goes, or went in the eighteenth
century—and Hammon’s poetry is all religious—this Negro slave may hold
up his head in almost any company.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, the reader must not expect poetry in the typical stanzas I
shall quote, but just some remarkable rhyming for an African slave,
untaught and without precedent. “An Evening Thought” runs in such
stanzas as the following:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dear Jesus give thy Spirit now,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thy Grace to every Nation,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That han’t the Lord to whom we bow,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The Author of Salvation.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>From “An Address to Miss Phillis Wheatley, Ethiopian Poetess,” I take
the following as a representative stanza:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">While thousands muse with earthly toys,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And range about the street,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dear Phillis, seek for heaven’s joys,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where we do hope to meet.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>“A Poem for Children, with Thoughts on Death,” contains such stanzas as
this:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Tis God alone can make you wise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">His wisdom’s from above,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He fills the soul with sweet supplies<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By his redeeming love.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Two stanzas from “A Dialogue, Entitled, The Kind Master and the Dutiful
Servant,” will show how that poem runs:</p>
<p class="cpom">MASTER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then will the happy day appear,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That virtue shall increase;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lay up the sword and drop the spear,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And Nations seek for peace.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">SERVANT</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then shall we see the happy end,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Tho’ still in some distress;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That distant foes shall act like friends,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And leave their wickedness.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Jupiter Hammon’s birth and death dates are uncommemorated because
unknown. Unknown, too, is his grave. But to his memory, no less than to
that of Crispus Attucks, there should somewhere be erected a monument.</p>
<div class="figright"><a name="ill_004" id="ill_004"></a>
<a href="images/i_023_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_023_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Phillis Wheatley</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Since Stedman included in his <i>Library of American Literature</i> a picture
of Phillis Wheatley and specimens of her verse, a few white persons,
less than scholars and more than general readers, knew, when Dunbar
appeared, that there had been at least one poetic predecessor in his
race. But the long stretch between the slave-girl rhymer of Boston and
the elevator-boy singer of Dayton was desert. They knew not of George
Moses Horton of North Carolina, who found publication for <i>Poems by a
Slave</i> in 1829, and <i>Poetical Works</i> in 1845. Horton, who learned to
write by his own efforts, is said to have been so fond of poetry that he
would pick up any chance scraps of paper he saw, hoping to find verses.
They knew not of Ann Plato,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> of Hartford, Connecticut, a slave girl who
published a book of twenty poems in 1841; nor of Frances Ellen Watkins
(afterwards Harper) whose <i>Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects</i> appeared in
1857, reaching a circulation of ten thousand copies; nor of Charles L.
Reason, whose poem entitled <i>Freedom</i>, published in 1847, voiced the cry
of millions of fellow blacks in bonds.</p>
<h4><i>2. Charles L. Reason</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 272px;"><a name="ill_005" id="ill_005"></a>
<a href="images/i_024_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_024_sml.jpg" width="272" height="340" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Charles L. Reason</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Thus bursts forth Reason’s poetic cry, not unlike that of the crude
Spirituals:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Freedom! Freedom! Oh, how oft<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy loving children call on Thee!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In wailings loud and breathings soft,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beseeching God, Thy face to see.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">With agonizing hearts we kneel,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While ’round us howls the oppressor’s cry,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And suppliant pray that we may feel<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ennobling glances of Thine eye.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>The apostrophe continues through forty-two stanzas, commemorating, with
appreciative knowledge of history, the countries, battle fields, and
heroes associated with the advance of freedom. After an arraignment of
civil rulers and a recreant priesthood, the learned and noble apostrophe
thus concludes:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, purify each holy court!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ministry of law and light!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That man no longer may be bought<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To trample down his brother’s right.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We lift imploring hands to Thee!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We cry for those in prison bound!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, in Thy strength come! Liberty!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And ’stablish right the wide world round.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We pray to see Thee, face to face:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To feel our souls grow strong and wide:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So ever shall our injured race<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By Thy firm principles abide.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>3. George Moses Horton</i></h4>
<p>By some means or other, self-guided, the North Carolina slave, George
Moses Horton, learned to read and write. His first book, <i>Poems by a
Slave</i>, appeared in 1829, and other books followed until 1865. Like
Hammon, and true to his race, Horton is religious, and, like Reason, and
again true to his race, he loves freedom. I choose but a few stanzas to
illustrate his quality as a poet:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Alas! and am I born for this,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To wear this slavish chain?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Deprived of all created bliss,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through hardship, toil, and pain?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How long have I in bondage lain,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And languished to be free!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Alas! and must I still complain,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Deprived of liberty?<br /></span>
<span class="ispc">****<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Roll through my ravished ears;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And drive away my fears.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>4. Frances Ellen Watkins Harper</i></h4>
<p>A female poet of the same period as Horton wrote in the same strain
about freedom:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Make me a grave wher’er you will,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In a lowly plain or a lofty hill;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Make it among earth’s humblest graves,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But not in a land where men are slaves.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Like Horton, she lived to see her prayer for freedom answered. Of the
Emancipation Proclamation she burst forth in joy:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It shall flash through coming ages,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">It shall light the distant years;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And eyes now dim with sorrow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shall be brighter through their tears.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>This slave woman was Frances Ellen Watkins, by marriage Harper. Mrs.
Harper attained to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> greater popularity than any poet of her race prior
to Dunbar. As many as ten thousand copies of some of her poems were in
circulation in the middle of the last century. Her success was not
unmerited. Many singers of no greater merit have enjoyed greater
celebrity. She was thoroughly in the fashion of her times, as Phillis
Wheatley was in the yet prevalent fashion of Pope, or, perhaps more
accurately, Cowper. The models in the middle of the nineteenth century
were Mrs. Hemans, Whittier, and Longfellow. It is in their manner she
writes. A serene and beautiful Christian spirit tells a moral tale in
fluent ballad stanzas, not without poetic phrasing. In all she beholds,
in all she experiences, there is a lesson. There is no grief without its
consolation. Serene resignation breathes through all her poems—at least
through those written after her freedom was achieved. Illustrations of
these traits abound. A few stanzas from <i>Go Work in My Vineyard</i> will
suffice. After bitter disappointments in attempting to fulfil the
command the “lesson” comes thus sweetly expressed:</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 195px;"><a name="ill_006" id="ill_006"></a>
<a href="images/i_027_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_027_sml.jpg" width="195" height="208" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">F. E. W. Harper</span></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My hands were weak, but I reached them out<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To feebler ones than mine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And over the shadows of my life<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stole the light of a peace divine.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, then my task was a sacred thing,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How precious it grew in my eyes!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Twas mine to gather the bruised grain<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For the Lord of Paradise.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And when the reapers shall lay their grain<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On the floors of golden light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I feel that mine with its broken sheaves<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shall be precious in His sight.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Though thorns may often pierce my feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the shadows still abide,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The mists will vanish before His smile,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">There will be light at eventide.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>How successfully Mrs. Harper could draw a lesson from the common objects
or occurrences of the world about us may be illustrated by the following
poem:</p>
<p class="cpom">TRUTH</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A rock, for ages, stern and high,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stood frowning ’gainst the earth and sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And never bowed his haughty crest<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When angry storms around him prest.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Morn, springing from the arms of night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had often bathed his brow with light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And kissed the shadows from his face<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With tender love and gentle grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Day, pausing at the gates of rest,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Smiled on him from the distant West,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And from her throne the dark-browed Night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Threw round his path her softest light.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And yet he stood unmoved and proud,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor love, nor wrath, his spirit bowed;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He bared his brow to every blast<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And scorned the tempest as it passed.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">One day a tiny, humble seed—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The keenest eye would hardly heed—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fell trembling at that stern rock’s base,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And found a lowly hiding-place.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A ray of light, and drop of dew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Came with a message, kind and true;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They told her of the world so bright,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Its love, its joy, and rosy light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lured her from her hiding-place,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To gaze upon earth’s glorious face.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So, peeping timid from the ground,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She clasped the ancient rock around,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And climbing up with childish grace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She held him with a close embrace;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her clinging was a thing of dread;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where’er she touched a fissure spread,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And he who’d breasted many a storm<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stood frowning there, a mangled form.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A Truth, dropped in the silent earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May seem a thing of little worth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till, spreading round some mighty wrong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It saps its pillars proud and strong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And o’er the fallen ruin weaves<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The brightest blooms and fairest leaves.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>The story of Vashti, who dared heroically to disobey her
monarch-husband, is as well told in simple ballad measure as one may
find it. I give it entire:</p>
<p class="cpom">VASHTI</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She leaned her head upon her hand<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And heard the King’s decree—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“My lords are feasting in my halls;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Bid Vashti come to me.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I’ve shown the treasures of my house,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My costly jewels rare,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But with the glory of her eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i2">No rubies can compare.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Adorn’d and crown’d I’d have her come,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With all her queenly grace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, ’mid my lords and mighty men,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Unveil her lovely face.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Each gem that sparkles in my crown,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or glitters on my throne,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grows poor and pale when she appears,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My beautiful, my own!”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All waiting stood the chamberlains<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To hear the Queen’s reply.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They saw her cheek grow deathly pale,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But light flash’d to her eye:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Go, tell the King,” she proudly said,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“That I am Persia’s Queen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And by his crowds of merry men<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I never will be seen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I’ll take the crown from off my head<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And tread it ’neath my feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before their rude and careless gaze<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My shrinking eyes shall meet.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“A queen unveil’d before the crowd!—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Upon each lip my name!—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why, Persia’s women all would blush<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And weep for Vashti’s shame!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Go back!” she cried, and waved her hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And grief was in her eye:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Go, tell the King,” she sadly said,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“That I would rather die.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They brought her message to the King;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Dark flash’d his angry eye;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Twas as the lightning ere the storm<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Hath swept in fury by.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then bitterly outspoke the King,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through purple lips of wrath—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“What shall be done to her who dares<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To cross your monarch’s path?”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then spake his wily counsellors—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“O King of this fair land!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From distant Ind to Ethiop,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All bow to thy command.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“But if, before thy servants’ eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">This thing they plainly see,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That Vashti doth not heed thy will<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nor yield herself to thee,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“The women, restive ’neath our rule,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Would learn to scorn our name,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And from her deed to us would come<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Reproach and burning shame.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Then, gracious King, sign with thy hand<br /></span>
<span class="i2">This stern but just decree,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That Vashti lay aside her crown,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thy Queen no more to be.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She heard again the King’s command,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And left her high estate;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strong in her earnest womanhood,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">She calmly met her fate,<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And left the palace of the King,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Proud of her spotless name—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A woman who could bend to grief<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But would not bow to shame.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Those last stanzas are quite as noble as any that one may find in the
poets whom I named as setting the American fashion in the era of Mrs.
Harper. The poems of this gentle, sweet-spirited Negro woman deserve a
better fate than has overtaken them.</p>
<h4><i>5. James Madison Bell and Albery A. Whitman</i></h4>
<p>Although this is not a history of American Negro poetry, yet a brief
notice must be given at this point to two other writers too important to
be omitted even from a swift survey like the present one. They are J.
Madison Bell and Albery A. Whitman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 203px;"><a name="ill_007" id="ill_007"></a>
<a href="images/i_033_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_033_sml.jpg" width="203" height="264" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">James Madison Bell</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Bell, anti-slavery orator and friend of John Brown’s, was a prolific
writer of eloquent verse. His original endowments were considerable.
Denied an education in boyhood, he learned a trade and in manhood at
night-schools gained access to the wisdom of books. He became a master
of expression both with tongue and pen. His long period of productivity
covers the history of his people from the decade before Emancipation
till the death of Dunbar. Bell’s themes are lofty and he writes with
fervid eloquence. There is something of Byronic power in the roll of his
verse. An extract from <i>The Progress of Liberty</i> will be representative,
though an extract cannot show either the maintenance of power or the
abundance of resources:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Liberty, what charm so great!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">One radiant smile, one look of thine<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Can change the drooping bondsman’s fate,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And light his brow with hope divine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">His manhood, wrapped in rayless gloom,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">At thy approach throws off its pall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And rising up, as from the tomb,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stands forth defiant of the thrall.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No tyrant’s power can crush the soul<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Illumed by thine inspiring ray;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The fiendishness of base control<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Flies thy approach as night from day.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ride onward, in thy chariot ride,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thou peerless queen; ride on, ride on—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With Truth and Justice by thy side—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From pole to pole, from sun to sun!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor linger in our bleeding South,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nor domicile with race or clan;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in thy glorious goings forth,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Be thy benignant object Man—<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Of every clime, of every hue,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of every tongue, of every race,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Neath heaven’s broad, ethereal blue;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Oh! let thy radiant smiles embrace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till neither slave nor one oppressed<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Remain throughout creation’s span,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By thee unpitied and unblest<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of all the progeny of man.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We fain would have the world aspire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To that proud height of free desire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That flamed the heart of Switzer’s Tell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Whose archery skill none could excell),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When once upon his Alpine brow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He stood reclining on his bow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And saw, careering in his might—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In all his majesty of flight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span>—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A lordly eagle float and swing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon his broad, untrammeled wing.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He bent his bow, he poised his dart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With full intent to pierce the heart;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But as the proud bird nearer drew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His stalwart arm unsteady grew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His arrow lingered in the groove—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The cord unwilling seemed to move,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For there he saw personified<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That freedom which had been his pride;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And as the eagle onward sped,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O’er lofty hill and towering tree,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He dropped his bow, he bowed his head;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He could not shoot—’twas Liberty!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Whitman, a younger contemporary of Bell’s, is the author of several long
tales in verse. Like Bell, he wrote only in standard English, and like
him also, shows a mastery of expression, with fluency of style, wealth
of imagery, and a command of the forms of verse given vogue by Scott and
Byron. Both likewise write fervently of the wrongs suffered by the black
man at the hands of the white. Thus far they resemble; but if we extend
the comparison we note important differences. Bell has more of the
fervor of the orator and the sense of fact of the historian. He adheres
closely to events and celebrates occasions. Whitman invents tragic tales
of love and romance, clothing them with the charm of the South and
infusing into them the pathos which results from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> the strife of thwarted
passions, the defeat of true love.</p>
<p>A stanza or two from Whitman’s <i>An Idyl of the South</i> will exemplify his
qualities. The hero of this pathetic tale is a white youth of
aristocratic parentage, the heroine is an octoroon. He is thus
described:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He was of manly beauty—brave and fair;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There was the Norman iron in his blood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There was the Saxon in his sunny hair<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That waved and tossed in an abandoned flood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But Norman strength rose in his shoulders square,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so, as manfully erect he stood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Norse gods might read the likeness of their race<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In his proud bearing and patrician face.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The heroine is thus portrayed:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A lithe and shapely beauty; like a deer,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She looked in wistfulness, and from you went;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With silken shyness shrank as if in fear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And kept the distance of the innocent.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But, when alone, she bolder would appear;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then all her being into song was sent<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To bound in cascades—ripple, whirl, and gleam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A headlong torrent in a crystal stream.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Only tragedy, under the conditions, could result from their mutual
fervent love. The poet does not moralize but in a figure intimates the
sadness induced by the tale:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The hedges may obscure the sweetest bloom—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The orphan of the waste—the lowly flower;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">While in the garden, faint for want of room,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The splendid failure pines within her bower.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There is a wide republic of perfume,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In which the nameless waifs of sun and shower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That scatter wildly through the fields and woods,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Make the divineness of the solitudes.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>After such a manner wrote those whom we may call bards of an elder day.</p>
<h4><i>6. Paul Laurence Dunbar</i></h4>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He came, a dark youth, singing in the dawn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of a new freedom, glowing o’er his lyre,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Refining, as with great Apollo’s fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His people’s gift of song. And, thereupon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This Negro singer, come to Helicon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Constrained the masters, listening, to admire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And roused a race to wonder and aspire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gazing which way their honest voice was gone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With ebon face uplit of glory’s crest.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who brought the cabin’s mirth, the tuneful night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But faced the morning, beautiful with light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To die while shadows yet fell toward the west,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And leave his laurels at his people’s feet.<br /></span>
<span class="i8">—<i>James David Corrothers.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Less than a generation ago William Dean Howells hailed Paul Laurence
Dunbar as “the first instance of an American Negro who had evinced
innate distinction in literature,” “the only man of pure African blood
and of American civilization to feel Negro life æsthetically and express
it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> lyrically.” It is not my purpose to give Dunbar space and
consideration in this book commensurate with his importance. Its scope
does not, strictly speaking, include him and his predecessors. They are
introduced here, but to provide an historical background. The object of
this book is to exhibit the achievement of the Negro in verse since
Dunbar. Even though it were true, which I think it is not, that no
American Negro previous to Dunbar had evinced innate distinction in
literature, this anthology, I believe, will reveal that many American
Negroes in this new day are evincing, if not innate distinction, yet
cultured talent, in literature.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 201px;"><a name="ill_008" id="ill_008"></a>
<a href="images/i_038_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_038_sml.jpg" width="201" height="294" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Paul Laurence Dunbar</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>The sonnet to Dunbar which stands at the head of this section was
composed by a Negro who was by three years Dunbar’s senior. His
opportunities in early life were far inferior to Dunbar’s. At nineteen
years of age, with almost inconsiderable schooling, he was a boot-black
in a Chicago barber shop. I give his sonnet here—other poems<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> of his I
give in another chapter—in evidence of that distinction in literature,
innate or otherwise, which is rather widespread among American Negroes
of the present time. Dunbar himself might have been proud to put his
name to this sonnet.</p>
<p>When this marvel, a Negro poet, so vouched for, appeared in the West,
like a new star in the heavens, a few white people, a very few, knew,
vaguely, that back in Colonial times there was a slave woman in Boston
who had written verses, who was therefore a prodigy. The space between
Phillis Wheatley and this new singer was desert. But Nature, as people
think, produces freaks, or sports; therefore a Negro poet was not
absolutely beyond belief, since poets are rather freakish, abnormal
creatures anyway. Incredulity therefore yielded to an attitude scarcely
worthier, namely, that dishonoring, irreverent interpretation of a
supreme human phenomenon which consists in denominating it a freak of
nature. But Dunbar is a fact, as Burns, as Whittier, as Riley, are
facts—a fact of great moment to a people and for a people. For one
thing, he revealed to the Negro youth of America the latent literary
powers and the unexploited literary materials of their race. He was the
fecundating genius of their talents. Upon all his people he was a
tremendously quickening power, not less so than his great contemporary
at Tuskegee. Doubtless it will be recognized, in a broad view, that the
Negro people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> of America needed, equally, both men, the counterparts of
each other.</p>
<p>It needs to be remarked for white people, that there were two Dunbars,
and that they know but one. There is the Dunbar of “the jingle in a
broken tongue,” whom Howells with gracious but imperfect sympathy and
understanding brought to the knowledge of the world, and whom the public
readers, white and black alike, have found it delightful to present, to
the entire eclipse of the other Dunbar. That other Dunbar was the poet
of the flaming “Ode to Ethiopia,” the pathetic lyric, “We Wear the
Mask,” the apparently offhand jingle but real masterpiece entitled
“Life,” the incomparable ode “Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
eyes,” and a score of other pieces in which, using their speech, he
matches himself with the poets who shine as stars in the firmament of
our admiration. This Dunbar Howells failed to appreciate, and ignorance
of him has been fostered, as I have intimated, by professional readers
and writers. The first Dunbar, the generally accepted one, was, as
Howells pointed out, the artistic interpreter of the old-fashioned,
vanishing generation of black folk—the generation that was maimed and
scarred by slavery, that presented so many ludicrous and pathetic,
abject and lovable aspects in strange mixture. The second Dunbar was the
prophet robed in a mantle of austerity, shod with fire, bowed with
sorrow, as every true prophet has been, in whatever time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> among
whatever people. He was the prophet, I say, of a new generation, a
coming generation, as he was the poet of a vanishing generation. The
generation of which he was the prophet-herald has arrived. Its most
authentic representatives are the poets that I put forward in this
volume as worthy of attention.</p>
<p>Dunbar’s real significance to his race has been admirably expressed not
only by Corrothers but in the following lines by his biographer, Lida
Keck Wiggins:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Life’s lowly were laureled with verses<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And sceptered were honor and worth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While cabins became, through the poet,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Fair homes of the lords of the earth.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>So it was. But “honor and worth” yet remain, to be “sceptered.” Such
poems as these few here given from the choragus of the present
generation of Negro singers will suggest the kind of honor and the
degree of worth to which our tribute is due.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>
<p class="cpom">ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The magic gold which from the seeker flies;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And make the waking world a world of lies,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That say life’s full of aches and tears and sighs,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How all the griefs and heartaches we have known<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come up like pois’nous vapors that arise<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From some base witch’s caldron, when the crone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To work some potent spell, her magic plies.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The past which held its share of bitter pain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Comes up, is lived and suffered o’er again,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And pangs of vague inexplicable pain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That pay the spirit’s ceaseless enterprise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Tends her far course to lands of mystery?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To lands unspeakable—beyond surmise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where shapes unknowable to being spring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Much wearied with the spirit’s journeying,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How questioneth the soul that other soul,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But self exposes unto self, a scroll<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In characters indelible and known;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The soul doth view its awful self alone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For kissing all our passions into calm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">At glooms through which our visions cannot see,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">LIFE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And never a laugh but the moans come double;<br /></span>
<span class="i8">And that is life!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A crust and a corner that love makes precious,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter:<br /></span>
<span class="i8">And that is life!<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom"><i><span class="ispc">****<br /></span></i></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Mother Race! to thee I bring<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This pledge of faith unwavering,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">This tribute to thy glory.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know the pangs which thou didst feel,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When Slavery crushed thee with its heel,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With thy dear blood all gory.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sad days were those—ah, sad indeed!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But through the land the fruitful seed<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of better times was growing.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The plant of freedom upward sprung,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And spread its leaves so fresh and young—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Its blossoms now are blowing.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">On every hand in this fair land,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Proud Ethiope’s swarthy children stand<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Beside their fairer neighbor;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The forests flee before their stroke,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They stir in honest labor.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They tread the fields where honor calls;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their voices sound through senate halls<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In majesty and power.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To right they cling; the hymns they sing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Up to the skies in beauty ring,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And bolder grow each hour.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy name is writ on Glory’s scroll<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In characters of fire.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">High ’mid the clouds of Fame’s bright sky<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy banner’s blazoned folds now fly,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And truth shall lift them higher.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 318px;"><a name="ill_009" id="ill_009"></a>
<a href="images/i_045_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_045_sml.jpg" width="318" height="551" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Ethiopia—Awakening</span></p>
<p><i>By Meta Warrick Fuller</i></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thou hast the right to noble pride,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose spotless robes were purified<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By blood’s severe baptism,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon thy brow the cross was laid,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And labor’s painful sweat-beads made<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A consecrating chrism.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">No other race, or white or black,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When bound as thou wert, to the rack,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So seldom stooped to grieving;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No other race, when free again,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Forgot the past and proved them men<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So noble in forgiving.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Go on and up! Our souls and eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall follow thy continuous rise;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Our ears shall list thy story<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From bards who from thy root shall spring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And proudly tune their lyres to sing<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of Ethiopia’s glory.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">WITH THE LARK</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All the night through, though I moan in the dark,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where the rain shall not grieve thro’ the leaves of the tree,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And though life has been hard and death’s pathway been dark,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">WE WEAR THE MASK</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We wear the mask that grins and lies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This debt we pay to human guile;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And mouth with myriad subtleties.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why should the world be over-wise,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In counting all our tears and sighs?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nay, let them only see us, while<br /></span>
<span class="i4">We wear the mask.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To thee from tortured souls arise.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We sing, but oh, the clay is vile<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath our feet, and long the mile;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But let the world dream otherwise,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">We wear the mask!<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>7. J. Mord Allen</i></h4>
<p>In the year of Dunbar’s death (1906), J. Mord Allen published his
<i>Rhymes, Tales, and Rhymed Tales</i>. The contents are mainly in dialect,
dialect that possesses, as it seems to me, every merit of that medium.
There is great felicity of characterization, surprising turns of wit,
quaint philosophy. In a later chapter I will give a specimen of Mr.
Allen’s dialect verse, here two standard English poems. In both mediums
his credentials are authentic, no whit less so than even Dunbar’s. Only
the question arises why his muse became silent after this one
utterance—for he was at the time but thirty-one years old. Perhaps
poetry did not go with boiler-making, his occupation. Because of the
date of his one book I place him here with Dunbar, and there are yet
other reasons.</p>
<p>Mr. Allen affords but two standard English poems, the first and the last
of his book. Such a fact marks him as of the elder day, though that day
be less than a score of years agone. The concluding poem of his book has
a sweet sadness that must appeal to every heart whose childhood is
getting to be far away:</p>
<p class="cpom">COUNTING OUT</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, how the sad-sweet Long Ago<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Enyouths us, as by magic spell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With that old rhyme. You know it well;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">For time was, once, when e’en your eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Saw Heaven plainly, in the skies.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Past twilight, when a brave moon glowed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Just o’er the treetops, and the road<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was full of romping children—say,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What was the game we used to play?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yes! Hide-and-seek. And at the base,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who first must go and hide his face?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Remember—standing in a row—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo”?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How fare we children here below?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our moon is far from treetops now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Heaven isn’t up, somehow.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No more for sport play we “I spy”;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our “laying low” and “peeping high”.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are now with consequences fraught;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There’s black disgrace in being caught.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But what’s to pay the pains we take?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let’s play the game for its own sake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, ere ’tis time to homeward flit,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let’s get some pleasure out of it.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For death will soon count down the row,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Though of the elder day yet Allen is, like Dunbar, a herald of the
generation that is now articulate. In this rôle of herald to a more
self-assertive generation, a more aspiring and race-conscious one, he
speaks with immense significance to us in this first poem of his book,
which, as being prophetic of much we now see in the colored folk<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> of
America I permit to close this summary review of earlier Negro poetry:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE PSALM OF THE UPLIFT</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Still comes the Perfect Thing to man<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As came the olden gods, in dreams;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then the man—made artist—knows<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How real is the thing which seems.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then, tongue or brush or magic pen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May win the world to loud acclaim,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But he who wrought knows in his soul<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That, like as tinsel is to gold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His work is, to his aim.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It’s there ahead to him—and you<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And me. I swear it isn’t far;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Else, black Despair would cut us down<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the land of hateful Things Which Are.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But, just beyond our finger-tips,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Things As They Should Be shame the weak,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hold the aching muscles tense<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through th’ next moment of suspense<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which triumph is to break.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And shall we strive? The years to come,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till sunset of eternity,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are given to the fairest god,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The God of Things As They Should Be.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ending? Nay, ’tis ours to do<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And dare and bear and not to flinch;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To enter where is no retreat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To win one stride from sheer defeat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To die—but gain an inch.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br /><br />
<small>THE PRESENT RENAISSANCE OF THE NEGRO</small></h2>
<h4><i>I. A Glance at the Field</i></h4>
<p><span class="smcap">Many</span> are the forms of expression that the life of a developing people or
group finds for itself—business and wealth, education and culture,
political and social unrest and agitation, literature and art. It can
scarcely happen that any people or group has a vital significance for
other peoples or groups, or any real potency, until it begins to express
itself in poetry. When, however, a race or a portion of our common race
begins to embody its aspirations, its grievances, its animating spirit
in song the world may well take notice. That race or portion of our
common race has within it an unreckoned potency of good and evil—evil
if the good be thwarted.</p>
<p>It is not, then, to editorials and speeches and sermons, nor to
petitions, protests, and resolutions, but to poems that the wise will
turn in order to learn the temper and permanent bent of mind of a
people. Witness the recent history of Ireland. Her literary renascence
preceded her effective political agitation. The political agitation
which resulted in her independence was the work of poets. The real life
of a people finds its only ade<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span>quate record in song. All of a people’s
history that is permanently or profoundly significant is distilled into
poetry.</p>
<p>It is to the unknown poetry of a despised and rejected people that I
call attention in these pages. One of this people’s poets sings:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We have fashioned laughter<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out of tears and pain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But the moment after—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pain and tears again.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Charles Bertram Johnson.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">And when he so sings we know there is one race above all others which
these words describe. Another sings:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I will suppose that fate is just,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I will suppose that grief is wise,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I will tread what path I must<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To enter Paradise.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">And when he so sings we know out of what tribulations his resignation
has been born. The resolution of despair cries out in the lines of
another:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My life were lost if I should keep<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A hope-forlorn and gloomy face,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And brood upon my ills, and weep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And mourn the travail of my race.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Leslie Pinckney Hill.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">Another singer, coming out of the Black Belt of the lower South, records
the daily and life-long history of his people in these lines:</p>
<p class="cpom">IT’S ALL THROUGH LIFE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A day of joy, a week of pain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A sunny day, a week of rain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A day of peace, a year of strife;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But cling to Him, it’s all through life.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">An hour of joy, a day of fears,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An hour of smiles, a day of tears;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An hour of gain, a day of strife,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Press on, press on, it’s all through life.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Waverley Turner Carmichael.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In the poetry which the Negro is producing to-day there is a challenge
to the world. His race has been deeply stirred by recent events; its
reaction has been mighty. The challenge, spoken by one, but for the
race, the inarticulate millions as well as the cultured few, comes thus:</p>
<p class="cpom">TO AMERICA</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How would you have us—as we are,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or sinking ’neath the load we bear?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our eyes fixed forward on a star?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or gazing empty at despair?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rising or falling? Men or things?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With dragging pace, or footsteps fleet?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strong, willing sinews in your wings?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or tightening chains about your feet?<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>James Weldon Johnson.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">With slight regard for smooth words another declares his grievances,
that all may understand:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yes, I am lynched. Is it that I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Must without judge or jury die?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though innocent, am I accursed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To quench the mob’s blood-thirsty thirst?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yes, I am mocked. Pray tell me why!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did not my brothers freely die<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For you, and your Democracy—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That each and all alike be free?<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Raymond Garfield Dandridge.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">So runs the dominant note of this poetry. But it would be unjust to the
race producing it to convey the idea that this is the only note. The
harp of Ethiopia has many strings and the brothers of Memnon are many.
Sometimes the note is one of simple beauty, like that of a wild rose
blossoming by the wayside. No reader could tell what race produced such
a lyric as the one following, but any reader responsive to the beauty of
art and to the truth of passion would assert its excellence:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I will hide my soul and its mighty love<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the bosom of this rose,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And its dispensing breath will take<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My love wherever it goes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And perhaps she’ll pluck this very rose,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, quick as blushes start,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will breathe my hidden secret in<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her unsuspecting heart.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>George Marion McClellan.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In a Negro magazine one may chance upon a sonnet that the best poet of
our times might have signed and feared no loss to his reputation, nor
would there be any mark of race in its lines. To candid judgment I
submit the following, from Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson:</p>
<p class="cpom">VIOLETS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I had not thought of violets of late,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In wistful April days, when lovers mate<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The thoughts of violets meant florists’ shops,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And garish lights, and mincing little fops,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I had forgot wide fields and clear brown streams;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The perfect loveliness that God has made—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And now unwittingly, you’ve made me dream<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>It needs not that a poet write an epic to prove himself chosen of the
muse. The winds of time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> may blow into oblivion all but five lines of an
<i>opus magnum</i>, in which five lines alone was the laborious author a
poet. Wise is the poet who writes but the five lines, as here:</p>
<p class="cpom">SUNSET</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Since Poets have told of sunset,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What is left for me to tell?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I can only say that I saw the day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Press crimson lips to the horizon gray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And kiss the earth farewell.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Mary Effie Lee.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The theme may be as old as man and as common as humanity yet it can be
made to be felt as poetic by one who has the magic gift, as here:</p>
<p class="cpom">LONELINESS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I cannot make my thoughts stay home;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I cannot close their door;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, oh, that I might shut them in,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And they go out no more!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For they go out, with wistful eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And search the whole world through;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Just hoping, in their wandering,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To catch a glimpse of you!<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Winifred Virginia Jordan.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>One’s find may be in <i>The Poet’s Ingle</i> of a newspaper, where an unknown
name is attached to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> verses that have the charm which Longfellow found
in the simple and heartfelt lays of the humbler poet. From such a poem,
entitled <i>To My Grandmother</i>, by Mae Smith Johnson, I take two stanzas,
the first two as beautiful as the theme evoked:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You ’mind me of the winter’s eve<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When low the sinking sun<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Casts soft bright rays upon the snow<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And day, now almost done,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In silence deep prepares to leave,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And calmly waits the signal “Go.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Your eyes are faded vestal lights<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That once the hearth illumed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where vestal virgins vigil kept,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And budding virtue bloomed:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like stars that beam on summer nights,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your eyes, by joy and sorrow swept.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Less beautiful, less original, but in another way not less appealing,
are these stanzas, also signed by an unknown name and taken from the
Christmas number of a newspaper. They are the last stanzas but one of a
poem entitled <i>The Child Is Found</i>, by Charles H. Este:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O hearts that mourn and sorrow so,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That doubt the power of God,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An angel now is bending low—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To comfort as you plod.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He speaks with tones of whispering love,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With feelings true and strong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sings of sweetest joys above,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For souls without a song.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Pride of race, no less than grief for wrongs endured, is one of the
notes of this living verse. Eulogies of the men and women who have lived
heroically for their people, giving vision, quickening aspiration,
opening roads of advance, find a place in every volume of verse and in
the pages of newspapers. Few white persons perhaps have paused to
reflect how noteworthy this traditionary store of heroic names really is
and how potent it is with the people inheriting it. Both practical and
poetic uses—if these two things are different—it has. One cannot
foretell to what reflections upon life the eulogist will be led ere he
concludes. From an ode to Booker T. Washington, by Roscoe Riley Dungee,
I take a stanza, by way of illustration:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yet, virtue walks a path obscure,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And honor struggles to endure,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While arrogance and deeds impure<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Adorn the Hall of Fame.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Still, power triumphs over right,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And wrong is victor in the fight;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Greed, graft, and knavery excite<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Vociferous acclaim.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>It has become evident to those who have seriously studied the
present-day life of the Negroes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> that there has been in these recent
years a renascence of the Negro soul. Poetry, as these pages will show,
is one of its modes of expression. Other expressions there are, very
significant ones, too, expressions which are material, tangible,
expressible in figures. Not of this kind is poetry. Yet of all forms
whereby the soul of a people expresses itself the most potent, the most
effective, is poetry. The re-born soul of the Negro is following the
tradition of all races in all times by pouring itself into that form of
words which embodies the most of passionate thought and feeling.</p>
<p>Out of the very heart of a race of twelve million people amongst us
comes this cry which a Negro poet of Virginia utters as</p>
<p class="cpom">A PRAYER OF THE RACE THAT GOD MADE BLACK</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We would be peaceful, Father—but, when we must,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Help us to thunder hard the blow that’s just!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We would be prayerful: Lord, when we have prayed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let us arise courageous—unafraid!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We would be manly—proving well our worth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then would not cringe to any god on earth!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We would be loving and forgiving, thus<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To love our neighbor as Thou lovest us!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We would be faithful, loyal to the Right—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ne’er doubting that the Day will follow Night!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We would be all that Thou hast meant for man,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Up through the ages, since the world began!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">God! save us in Thy Heaven, where all is well!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We come slow-struggling up the Hills of Hell!<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Lucian B. Watkins.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Too confidently, as we may learn, have we of the other race relied upon
the Negro’s innate optimism to keep him a safe citizen and a
long-suffering servant. That optimism, that gaiety and buoyancy of
spirit, if not indestructible in the African soul, is yet reducible to
the vanishing point. There are signs of something quite different in the
attitude of Negroes toward their white neighbors to-day. In their poetry
this reputed optimism, where it exists, is found in union with a note of
melancholy or of bitter complaint. A characteristic utterance of this
mood I find in a poem entitled “The Optimist,” from which I will give
one-third of its stanzas:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Never mind, children, be patient awhile,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And carry your load with a nod and a smile,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For out of the hell and the hard of it all,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Time is sure to bring sweetest honey—not gall.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Out of the hell and the hard of it all,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A bright star shall rise that never shall fall:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A God-fearing race—proud, noble, and true,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Giving good for the evil which they always knew.<br /></span>
<span class="ispc">****<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span>
<span class="i0">So dry your wet pillow and lift your bowed head<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And show to the world that hope is not dead!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Be patient! Wait! See what yet may befall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out of the hell and the hard of it all.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Ethyl Lewis.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>But in dark days the Negro has ever had refuges and sources of strength
for the want of which other races have been crushed. One of these
refuges for them is the benignant breast of nature—the deep peace of
the woods and the hills, the quiet soothing of pleasant-running water,
the benediction of bright skies. A rarely-gifted woman, Mrs. Georgia
Douglas Johnson, singing her own consolation, with a pathos that pierces
the heart, has sung for thousands of the women of her race else dumb
alike in grief and in joy, and in mingled grief and joy:</p>
<p class="cpom">PEACE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I rest me deep within the wood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Drawn by its silent call;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Far from the throbbing crowd of men<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On nature’s breast I fall.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My couch is sweet with blossoms fair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A bed of fragrant dreams,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And soft upon my ear there falls<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The lullaby of streams.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The tumult of my heart is stilled,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Within this sheltered spot,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Deep in the bosom of the wood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Forgetting, and—forgot!<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Death and the mysteries of life, the pain and the grief that flesh and
soul are heirs to, the eternal problems that address themselves to all
generations and races, produce in the soul of the Negro the same
reactions as of old they produced in the soul of David or of Homer, or
as, in our own day, in the soul of a Wordsworth or a Shelley. Of this we
have a glimpse in the following lyric, from Walter Everette Hawkins:</p>
<p class="cpom">IN SPITE OF DEATH</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Curses come in every sound,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And wars spread gloom and woe around.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The cannon belch forth death and doom,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But still the lilies wave and bloom.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Man fills the earth with grief and wrong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But cannot hush the bluebird’s song.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My stars are dancing on the sea,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The waves fling kisses up at me.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Each night my gladsome moon doth rise;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A rainbow spans my evening skies;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The robin’s song is full and fine;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And roses lift their lips to mine.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The jonquils ope their petals sweet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The poppies dance around my feet;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In spite of winter and of death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Spring is in the zephyr’s breath.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>This poetry but re-affirms the essential identity of human nature under
black and white skins. But it will remind most of the white race of how
ignorant they have been of that black race next<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> door that is acquiring
wealth and culture and is expressing in art and literature the spirit of
an aspiring people—how ignorant of their real life, their very
thoughts, their completely human joys and griefs. One of their poets was
cognizant of this unhappy ignorance—the source of so much harshness of
treatment—when he wrote:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My people laugh and sing<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And dance to death—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">None imagining<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The heartbreak under breath.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Charles Bertram Johnson.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Nothing weighs more heavily upon the soul of this race to-day than this
everywhere self-betraying crass ignorance, made the more grievous to
endure by the vain boast accompanying it, that “I know the Negro better
than he knows himself.” This poetry in every line of it is a convincing
contradiction of this insulting arrogancy. Essential identity, that is
the message of these poets.</p>
<p>This kinship of souls and essential oneness of human nature, which
Shylock, speaking for a similarly oppressed and outrageously treated
people, pressed home upon the Christian merchants of Venice, finds
typical expression in the following lines:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We travel a common road, Brother,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We walk and we talk much the same;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We breathe the same sweet air of heaven—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strive alike for fortune and fame;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">We laugh when our hearts fill with gladness,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We weep when we’re smothered in woe;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We strive, we endure, we seek wisdom;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We sin—and we reap what we sow.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yes, all who would know it can see that<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When everything’s put to the test,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In spite of our color and features,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Negro’s the same as the rest.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Leon R. Harris.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>It is to be expected that, notwithstanding the Anglo-Saxon culture of
the producers of this poetry, the white reader will yet demand therein
what he regards as the African traits. Perhaps it will be crude,
artless, repetitious songs like the Spirituals. The quality of the
Spirituals is indeed not wanting in some of the most noteworthy
contemporary Negro verse. From Fenton Johnson’s three volumes of verse I
could select many pieces that exhibit this quality united with
disciplined art. For example, here is one:</p>
<p class="cpom">I PLAYED ON DAVID’S HARP</p>
<p class="cpom">(A Negro Spiritual)</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Last night I played on David’s harp,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I played on little David’s harp<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The gospel tunes of Israel;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all the angels came to hear<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Me play those gospel tunes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the Jordan rolled away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The angels shouted all the night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their “Glory, Hallelujah” shout;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Old Gabriel threw his trumpet down<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To hear the songs of Israel,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On mighty David’s harp,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the Jordan rolled away.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">When death has closed my weary eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll play again on David’s harp<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The last great song in life’s brief book;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all you children born of God<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Can stop awhile and hear me play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the Jordan rolls away.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>No less certain it is that many a reader will demand something more
crude, more obscure, more mystical. Something, perhaps, at once
ridiculous and wise—with big and strangely compounded words,
ludicrously applied, yet striving at the expression of some peculiarly
African idea. Of such verse I can produce no example. The nearest I can
come to meeting such impossible demand is by submitting the following
from William Edgar Bailey:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE SLUMP</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mr. Self at the bat!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Well, we’re all at the bat—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For one thing or other,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For this or for that.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ball may be hurled, in the form of this plea:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Will you please help the poor?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">God, have mercy on me!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mr. Self stops to think;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But the ball cuts the plate—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He’s aware that he slumped,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grasps the bat,—but too late.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What you say, Mr. Ump?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Can it be? Yes, ’tis done!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Well, I’ve said what I’ve said!”<br /></span>
<span class="i8">Mr. Self,<br /></span>
<span class="i8">Strike One!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mr. Self’s face is grim.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis the critical test—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For his heart, conscience-sick,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heaves stern at his breast.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Truth must be hurled, ’tis the law of the game;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If in life or in death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If in falsehood or shame.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mr. Self, strike the ball—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There’s a Tramp at your Gate!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mr. Self still amazed—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the ball cuts the plate.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mr. Self murmured not;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The decision he knew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Well, you’ve done that before.”<br /></span>
<span class="i8">Sighed the Ump.<br /></span>
<span class="i8">Strike Two!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There’s the Beggar and Gate—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But his silver and gold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is amix with his blood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A part of his soul.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Nazarene stooped—as all Umpires will do,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With His eye on a line,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">That his verdict be true—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Just a shift of the Truth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stern, the Nazarene tried,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But he tho’t of the Cross,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the blood from His side.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Your decision is false;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, have mercy on me.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But a voice from the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i8">Whispered low.<br /></span>
<span class="i8">Strike three.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Of humorous verse there is very little produced by the Negro writers of
these times. They take their vocation seriously. When their singing
robes are on it is to the plaintive notes of the flute or the dolorous
blasts of the trumpet they tune their songs.</p>
<p>These voices, and others like them, have but lately been lifted in song,
they are still youthful voices, and they are but preluding the more
perfect songs they are yet to sing. One voice that is now still,
silenced lately in death, at the age of twenty-three years, has sung for
them all what all feel:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE MULATTO TO HIS CRITICS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ashamed of my race?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And of what race am I?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am many in one.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through my veins there flows the blood<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Red Man, Black Man, Briton, Celt, and Scot,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In warring clash and tumultuous riot.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">I welcome all,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But love the blood of the kindly race<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That swarths my skin, crinkles my hair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And puts sweet music into my soul.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>“Sweet music in the soul”—that is heaven’s kind gift to this people,
music of sorrow and of faith; music, low and plaintive, of hope almost
failing; music, clear and strong, born of vision triumphant; music,
alas, sometimes marred by the strident notes of hatred and revenge.
Verily, poets learn in suffering what they teach in song.</p>
<p>In concluding this preliminary survey it should be reiterated that, if
one meets here but with the rhythms and forms, as he may think, which
are familiar to him in the poetry of the white race, he should reflect
that only in that poetry has the Negro had an opportunity to be
educated. He has been educated away from his own heritage and his own
endowments. The Negro’s native wisdom should lead him back to his
natural founts of song. Our educational system should allow of and
provide for this. His own literature in his schools is a reasonable
policy for the Negro.</p>
<p>As regards the essential significance of this poetry, one of its makers,
Miss Eva A. Jessye, has said in a beautiful way almost what I wish to
say. Her poem shall therefore conclude this presentation:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">THE SINGER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Because his speech was blunt and manner plain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Untaught in subtle phrases of the wise,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Because the years of slavery and pain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ne’er dimmed the light of faith within his eyes;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Because of ebon skin and humble pride,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The world with hatred thrust the youth aside.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But fragrance wafts from every trodden flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And through our grief we rise to nobler things,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Within the heart in sorrow’s darkest hour<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A well of sweetness there unbidden springs;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Despised of men, discarded and alone—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The world of nature claimed him as her own.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She taught him truths that liberate the soul<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From bonds more galling than the slaver’s chain—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That manly natures, lily-wise, unfold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Amid the mire of hatred void of stain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thus in his manhood, clean, superbly strong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To him was born the priceless gift of song.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The glory of the sun, the hush of morn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whisperings of tree-top faintly stirred,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The desert silence, wilderness forlorn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Far ocean depths, the tender lilt of bird;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of hope, despair, he sang, his melody<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The endless theme of life’s brief symphony.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And nations marveled at the minstrel lad,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who swayed emotions as his fancy led;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With him they wept, were melancholy, sad;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tis but a cunning jest of Fate,” they said;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They did not dream in selfish sphere apart<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That song is but the essence of the heart.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>II. Representatives of the Present Era</i></h4>
<h3>I. <span class="smcap">The Cotters, Father and Son</span></h3>
<h4><i>The Father</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_010" id="ill_010"></a>
<a href="images/i_070_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_070_sml.jpg" width="196" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>On the Kentucky plantation where Stephen Collins Foster one June
morning, when the mocking birds were singing and “the darkies were gay,”
composed and his sister sang, “My Old Kentucky Home,” there was among
those first delighted listeners who paused in their tasks to hear the
immortal song at its birth a slave girl in whose soul were strange
melodies of her own. Born of free people of color, she was bonded to the
owner of this plantation, yet her soul was such as must be free.
Faithful in her work, respectful and obedient, she was yet a dangerous
character among slaves, being too spirited. Hence her master ordered her
to leave, fearing she would demoralize discipline in the quarters. She
de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span>manded to be taken away as she had been brought—in a wagon; and it
was so done. It seems that one-half of her blood was African and the
other half was divided between Indian and English, though it is
impossible to be sure of the exact proportion. An account of her in
those days by one who knew her reveals her as one of nature’s poets—a
Phillis Wheatley of the wash-tubs. “She was very fervent in her
religious devotions”—so runs this account—“and a very hard worker. She
would sometimes wash nearly all night and then have periods of prayer
and exaltation. Then again during the day she would draw from her bosom
a favorite book and pause to read over the wash-tub. She had a strong
dramatic instinct and would frequently make up little plays of her own
and represent each character vividly.” Of such mothers are seers and
poets born. And so in this instance it proved to be.</p>
<p>At the age of twenty, while yet a slave, she was married, under the
common law—though marriage it was not called—to a Scotch-Irishman, a
prominent citizen of Louisville, her employer at the time, who was
distinguished by a notably handsome physique and a great fondness for
books. Of this union was born, at Bardstown, a son, Joseph, so named for
the dreamer of biblical story.</p>
<p>The vision-seeing slave mother, her mind running on the bondage of her
people, named her son Joseph in the hope of his becoming great in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span>
service of his people, like the Hebrew Joseph. She lived to see her hope
fulfilled. The boy’s earliest education was in song and story invented
and sung or told by his mother. He got a few terms of school, reaching
the third grade. At ten years of age he went to work in a brickyard of
Louisville to help support his mother. Even there the faculty that
afterwards distinguished him appears in action, to his relief in time of
trouble. Bigger boys, white and black, working in the same yard, hazed
and harried him. Fighting to victory was out of the question, against
such odds. Brains won where brawn was wanting. He observed that the men
at their noon rest-hour, the time of his distress, told stories and
laughed. He couldn’t join them, but he tried story-telling in the boy
group. It worked. The men, hearing the laughter, came over and joined
them. The persecuted boy became the entertainer of both groups. He had
won mastery by wit, the proudest mastery in the world.</p>
<p>Then, until he was twenty-two years of age, he was a teamster on the
levee. At this time the desire for an education mastered him and he
entered a night school—the primary grade. Hard toil and the struggle to
get on had not killed his soul but had wiped out his acquisitions of
book-knowledge. In two terms he was qualified to teach. He is now the
principal of the Samuel Coleridge-Taylor High School in Louisville, the
author of several books, a maker of songs and teller of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> stories, and a
man upright in conduct and wise in counsel.</p>
<p>It was at Bardstown, February 2, 1861, that Joseph Seamon Cotter was
born. Let Bardstown be put on the literary map of America, not because
Stephen Collins Foster wrote “My Old Kentucky Home” there, but because
one was born there the latchet of whose poetic shoes he was not worthy
to unloose. “A poet, a bard, to be born in Bardstown—how odd, and how
appropriate!” one exclaims. And <i>bard</i> seems exactly the right
appellation for this song-maker and story-man. But it is not altogether
so. In character bardlike, but not in appearance. Bards have long,
unkempt, white hair, which mingles with beards that rest on their
bosoms. Cotter’s square-cut chin is clean-shaven, and his large
brain-dome shows like a harvest moon. But he makes poems and invents and
discovers stories, and, bard-like, recites or relates them to whatever
audience may call for them—in schools, in churches, at firesides. Minus
the hairy habiliments he is a bard.</p>
<p>Some of Cotter’s stories come out of Africa and are “different,” as the
word goes. Some are “current among the colored folks of Louisville.”
These, too, are different. Some are tragedies and some are comedies and
some are tragi-comedies of everyday life among the Negroes. I will give
one entire tale here, selecting this particular one because of its
brevity, not its pre-eminence:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">THE BOY AND THE IDEAL</p>
<div class="smblk">
<p>Once upon a time a Mule, a Hog, a Snake, and a Boy met. Said the Mule:
“I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the heels. It is fine to have
heels so gifted. My heels make people cultivate distance.”</p>
<p>Said the Hog: “I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the snout. It
is fine to have a fine snout. I keep people watching for my snout.”</p>
<p>“No exchanging heels for snouts,” broke in the Mule.</p>
<p>“No,” answered the Hog; “snouts are naturally above heels.”</p>
<p>Said the Snake: “I eat to live, and live to cultivate my sting. The way
people shun me shows my greatness. Beget stings, comrades, and stings
will beget glory.”</p>
<p>Said the Boy: “There is a star in my life like unto a star in the sky. I
eat and labor that I may think aright and feel aright. These rounds will
conduct me to my star. Oh, inviting star!”</p>
<p>“I am not so certain of that,” said the Mule. “I have noticed your kind
and ever see some of myself in them. Your star is in the distance.”</p>
<p>The Boy answered by smelling a flower and listening to the song of a
bird. The Mule looked at him and said: “He is all tenderness and care.
The true and the beautiful have robbed me of a kinsman. His star is
near.”</p>
<p>Said the Boy: “I approach my star.”</p>
<p>“I am not so certain of that,” interrupted the Hog. “I have noticed your
kind and I ever see some of myself in them. Your star is a delusion.”</p>
<p>The Boy answered by painting the flower and setting the notes of the
bird’s song to music.</p>
<p>The Hog looked at the boy and said: “His soul is attuned by nature. The
meddler in him is slain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span>”</p>
<p>“I can all but touch my star,” cried the Boy.</p>
<p>“I am not so certain of that,” remarked the Snake. “I have watched your
kind and ever see some of myself in them. Stings are nearer than stars.”</p>
<p>The Boy answered by meditating upon the picture and music. The Snake
departed, saying that stings and stars cannot keep company.</p>
<p>The Boy journeyed on, ever led by the star. Some distance away the Mule
was bemoaning the presence of his heels and trying to rid himself of
them by kicking a tree. The Hog was dividing his time between looking
into a brook and rubbing his snout on a rock to shorten it. The Snake
lay dead of its own bite. The Boy journeyed on, led by an ever inviting
star.</p>
<p>(Negro Tales.—Joseph S. Cotter, The Cosmopolitan Press, New York,
1912.)</p>
</div>
<p>Yes—Uncle Remus, in reality—and not exactly so. No copy. Not every
like is the same. An Uncle Remus with culture and conscious art, yet
unspoilt, the native qualities strong. And how poetic those qualities
are!</p>
<p>Well might one expect a teacher, if he writes verse, to write didactic
verse. But I think you will pronounce him to be an extraordinary teacher
and verse-writer who writes as Mr. Cotter does, for example, in:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE THRESHING FLOOR</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thrice blessed he who wields the flail<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Upon this century’s threshing floor;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A few slight strokes by him avail<br /></span>
<span class="i2">More than a hundred would of yore.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Around him lies the ripened grain<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From every land and every age;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The weakest thresher should attain<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Unto the wisdom of the sage.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ambitious youth, this is the wealth<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The ages have bequeathed to thee.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou canst not take thy share by stealth<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nor by mere ingenuity.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thy better self must spur thee on<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To win what time has made thy own;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No hand but labor’s yet has drawn<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The sweets that labor’s hand has sown.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In verse presuming to be lyrical we hearken for the lyrical cry. That
cry is in his lines, melodiously uttered, and poignant. For example:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The flowers take the tears<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of the weeping night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And give them to the sun<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For the day’s delight.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My passion takes the joys<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of the laughing day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And melts them into tears<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For my heart’s decay.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The sweet sadness of those stanzas lingers with one. A stanza from a
poem entitled “The Nation’s Neglected Child” may help us to their
secret:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I am not thy pampered steed,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I am not thy welcome dog;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am of a lower breed<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Even than thy Berkshire hog;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am thy neglected child—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Make me grow, but keep me wild.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In many of Cotter’s verses there is a sonorous flow which is evidence of
poetic power made creative by passion. Didacticism and philosophy do not
destroy the lyrical quality. In <i>The Book’s Creed</i> this teacher-poet
makes an appeal to his generation to be as much alive and as creative as
the creed makers of other days were. The slaves of the letter, the
mummers of mere formulas, he thus addresses:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You are dead to all the Then,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You are dead to all the Now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If you hold that former men<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Wore the garland for your brow.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Time and tide were theirs to brave,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Time and tide are yours to stem.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bow not o’er their open grave<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till you drop your diadem.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Honor all who strove and wrought,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Even to their tears and groans;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But slay not your honest thought<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through your reverence for their bones.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Cotter is a wizard at rhyming. His “Sequel to the Pied Piper of Hamelin”
surpasses the original<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span>—Browning’s—in technique—that is, in rushing
rhythms and ingenious rhymes. It is an incredible success, with no hint
of a tour-de-force performance. Its content, too, is worthy of the
metrical achievement. I will lay the proof before the competent reader
in an extract or two from this remarkable accomplishment:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The last sweet notes the piper blew<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Were heard by the people far and wide;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And one by one and two by two<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They flocked to the mountain-side.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Some came, of course, intensely sad,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And some came looking fiercely mad,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And some came singing solemn hymns,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And some came showing shapely limbs,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And some came bearing the tops of yews,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And some came wearing wooden shoes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And some came saying what they would do,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And some came praying (and loudly too),<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all for what? Can you not infer?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A-searching and lurching for the Pied Piper,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the boys and girls he had taken away.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all were ready now to pay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Any amount that he should say.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">So begins the <i>Sequel</i>. Another passage, near the end, will indicate the
trend of the story:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The years passed by, as years will do,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When trouble is the master,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And always strives to bring to view<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A new and worse disaster;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sorrow, like a sorcerer,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Spread out her melancholy pall,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So that its folds enveloped all,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And each became her worshipper.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And not a single child was born<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through all the years thereafter;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If words sprang from the lips of scorn<br /></span>
<span class="i2">None came from those of laughter.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">Finally, the inhabitants of Hamelin are passing through death’s portal,
and when all had departed:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">—a message went to Rat-land<br /></span>
<span class="ispc1">******<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lo! a race of rats was at hand<br /></span>
<span class="ispc1">******<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They swarmed into the highest towers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And loitered in the fairest bowers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sat down where the mayor sat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And also in his Sunday hat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And gnawed revengefully thereat.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With rats for mayor and rats for people,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With rats in the cellar and rats in the steeple,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With rats without and rats within,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stood poor, deserted Hamelin.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Like Dunbar, Cotter is a satirist of his people—or certain types of his
people—a gentle, humorous, affectionate satirist. His medium for satire
is dialect, inevitably. Sententious wisdom, irradiated with humor,
appears in these pieces in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> homely garb. In standard English, without
satire or humor that wisdom thus appears:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What deeds have sprung from plow and pick!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">What bank-rolls from tomatoes!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No dainty crop of rhetoric<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Can match one of potatoes.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The gospel of work has been set forth by our poet in a four-act poetic
drama entitled <i>Caleb, the Degenerate</i>. All the characters are Negroes.
The form is blank verse—blank verse of a very high order, too. The
language, like Shakespeare’s—though Browning rather than Shakespeare is
suggested—is always that of a poet. The wisdom is that of a man who has
observed closely and pondered deeply. Idealistic, philosophical,
poetical—such it is. It bears witness to no ordinary dramatic ability.</p>
<p>“Best bard, because the wisest,” says our Israfel. Verily. “Sage” you
may call this man as well as “bard.” The proof is in poems and tales,
apologues and apothegms. Joseph Seamon Cotter is now sixty years of age.
Yet the best of him, according to good omens, is yet to be given forth,
in song, story, precept, and drama. His nature is opulent—the
cultivation began late and the harvest grows richer.</p>
<p>The chief event of his life, I doubt not, remains to be mentioned—a
very sad one. This was the untimely death of his poet-son, Joseph S.
Cotter, Jr. Born of this sorrow was the following lyric:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, my way and thy way,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And life’s joy and wonder,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And thy day and my day<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Are cloven asunder.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, my trust and thy trust,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And fair April weather,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And thy dust and my dust<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shall mingle together.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>The Son</i></h4>
<p>Dead at the age of twenty-three years, Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., left
behind a thin volume of lyrics, entitled <i>The Band of Gideon</i>, and about
twenty sonnets of an unfinished sequence, and a little book of one-act
plays. I will presently place the remarkable title-poem of his book of
lyrics before the reader, but first I will give two minor pieces,
without comment:</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_011" id="ill_011"></a>
<a href="images/i_081_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_081_sml.jpg" width="196" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.</span></p></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">RAIN MUSIC</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">On the dusty earth-drum<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Beats the falling rain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now a whispered murmur,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Now a louder strain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Slender silvery drumsticks,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On the ancient drum,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beat the mellow music,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Bidding life to come.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Chords of earth awakened,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Notes of greening spring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rise and fall triumphant<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Over everything.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Slender silvery drumsticks<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Beat the long tattoo—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">God the Great Musician<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Calling life anew.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">COMPENSATION</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That overhung my garden seat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And wondered I if, e’er before, bloomed there<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A rose so sweet.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thorn<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That pricked me as I pulled the bud;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till I beheld the rose, that summer morn,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stained with my blood.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I sang a song that thrilled the evening air,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With beauty somewhat kin to love,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all men knew that lyric song so rare<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Came from above.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And men rejoiced to hear the golden strain;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But no man knew the price I paid,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor cared that out of my soul’s deathless pain<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The song was made.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>The lyrical faculty is evinced by such poems. But other singers of our
day might have produced them—singers of the white race. Not so, I
think, of “The Band of Gideon.” Upon that poem is the stamp, not of
genius only, but of Negro genius. In it is re-incarnated, by a cultured,
creative mind, the very spirit of the old plantation songs and sermons.
The reader who has in his possession that background will respond to the
unique and powerful appeal of this poem.</p>
<p class="cpom">THE BAND OF GIDEON</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The band of Gideon roam the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The howling wind is their war-cry,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The thunder’s roll is their trumpet’s peal<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And men below rear temples high<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And mock their God with reasons why,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And live in arrogance, sin, and shame,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And rape their souls for the world’s good name.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span>”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The band of Gideon roam the sky<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And view the earth with baleful eye;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In holy wrath they scourge the land<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With earthquake, storm, and burning brand.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And “Lord have mercy on my soul,”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In agony searching for their God.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And men repent and then forget<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That heavenly wrath they ever met.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The band of Gideon yet will come<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span>
<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The reader, I predict, will be drawn again and again to this mysterious
poem. It will continue to haunt his imagination, and tease his thought.
The stamp of the African mind is upon it. Closely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> allied, on the one
hand by its august refrain to the Spirituals, on the other hand it
touches the most refined and perfected art; such, for example, as
Rossetti’s ballads or Vachel Lindsay’s cantatas. It can scarcely be
wondered at that the people of his race should call this untimely dead
singer their Negro Lycidas.</p>
<h3>II. <span class="smcap">James David Corrothers</span></h3>
<p class="cpom">THE DREAM AND THE SONG</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So oft our hearts, beloved lute,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In blossomy haunts of song are mute;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So long we pore, ’mid murmurings dull,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O’er loveliness unutterable;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So vain is all our passion strong!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wan ashes. Still, from memory’s urn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The lingering blossoms tenderly<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Refute our wilding minstrelsy.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Alas! we work but beauty’s wrong!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yearned Shelley o’er the golden flame?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Left Keats, for beauty’s lure, a name<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But “writ in water”? Woe is me!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To grieve o’er floral faëry.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My Phasian doves are flown so long—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ah, though we build a bower of dawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The golden-winged bird is gone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Only the swallow-twittering eaves.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What art may house or gold prolong<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A dream far lovelier than a song?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The lilting witchery, the unrest<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of wingèd dreams, is in our breast;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But ever dear Fulfilment’s eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My lute, must to the gods belong.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Cherokee-Indian, Scotch-Irish, French, and African blood in James David
Corrothers, the author of this poem, makes his complexion, he supposed,
“about that of the original man.” The reader has already had, at the
beginning of the discussion of Dunbar, a sonnet from this poet. The
sonnet, the above poem, and the others given here were published in <i>The
Century Magazine</i>. Not unworthy of <i>The Century’s</i> standards, the reader
must say.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 199px;"><a name="ill_012" id="ill_012"></a>
<a href="images/i_086_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_086_sml.jpg" width="199" height="256" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">J. D. Corrothers</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>James David Corrothers was born in Michigan, July 2, 1869. His mother in
giving him life sur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span>rendered her own. His father never cared for him.
Sheltered for a few years by maternal relatives, he was out on the world
in early boyhood, dependent on his own resources. Soon, because he was a
Negro, he was a wanderer for work through several states. Often without
money, friends, or food, he slept out of doors, sometimes in zero
weather. At nineteen years of age, as before stated, he was shining
shoes in a Chicago barber shop. There he was “discovered.”</p>
<p>Henry D. Lloyd was having his boots shined by young Corrothers when the
two fell into book talk. The distinguished writer was astonished at the
knowledge possessed by one engaged in such a menial occupation. Out of
this circumstance, it seems, the Negro boot-black became a student in
Northwestern University at Evanston, Illinois. By mowing lawns and doing
whatever odd jobs he could find he worked his way for three years in the
university. Then, by the kindness of Frances E. Willard, he had a year
in Bennett College, Greensboro, North Carolina. Prior to his entrance at
Northwestern there had been but one brief opportunity in his life for
attending school. But the wandering youth, battling against the adverse
fates, or, concretely stated, the disadvantage of being a Negro, had
managed somehow to make great books his companions. Hence, he had
entered what Carlyle calls “the true modern university.” Hence, his
literary conversation with Mr. Lloyd.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></p>
<p>Out of those early struggles, and perhaps also out of later bitter
experiences, came such poems as the following:</p>
<p class="cpom">AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Betrayed, like him whose woe-dimmed eyes gave bliss,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Still must one succor those who brought one low,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Demands rare patience—patience that can wait<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In utter darkness. ’Tis the path to miss,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which is to us white freedom’s emphasis.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah! one must love when truth and justice lag,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Merely a Negro”—in a day like <i>this</i>!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Even though his face be “red like Adam’s,” and even though his art be
noble like that of the masters of song, yet had Mr. Corrothers, even in
the republic of letters, felt the handicap of his complexion, as this
sonnet bears witness:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO SINGER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O’er all my song the image of a face<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lieth, like shadow on the wild, sweet flowers.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The golden lyre’s delights, bring little grace<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To bless the singer of a lowly race.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Long hath this mocked me: aye, in marvelous hours,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When Hera’s gardens gleamed, or Cynthia’s bowers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or Hope’s red pylons, in their far, hushed place!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But I shall dig me deeper to the gold;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So shall men know me, and remember long,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor my dark face dishonor any song.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Death has silenced the muse of this dark singer,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">one of the best hitherto. That his endowment was<br /></span>
<span class="i0">uncommon and that his achievement, as evinced by<br /></span>
<span class="i0">these poems, is one of distinction, to use Mr.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Howells’s word, every reader equipped to judge<br /></span>
<span class="i0">of poetry must admit.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h3>III. <span class="smcap">A Group of Singing Johnsons</span></h3>
<p>In all rosters the name Johnson claims liberal space. Five verse-smiths
with that cognomen will be presented in this book, and there is a sixth.
These many Johnsons are no further related to one another, so far as I
know, than that they are all Adam’s offspring, and poets. Only three of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>
them will be presented in this chapter: James Weldon Johnson, of
Florida, author of <i>Fifty Years and Other Poems</i> (1917); Charles Bertram
Johnson, of Missouri, author of <i>Songs of My People</i> (1918); Fenton
Johnson, of Chicago, author of <i>A Little Dreaming</i> (1914); <i>Unions of
the Dusk</i> (1915), and <i>Songs of the Soil</i> (1916). The fourth and fifth
are women, and will find a place in another group; the sixth is Adolphus
Johnson, author of <i>The Silver Chord</i>, Philadelphia, 1915. The three
mentioned above will be treated in the order in which they have been
named.</p>
<h4><i>1. James Weldon Johnson</i></h4>
<p>Now of New York, but born in Florida and reared in the South, James
Weldon Johnson is a man of various abilities, accomplishments, and
activities. He was graduated with the degrees of A. B. and A. M. from
Atlanta University and later studied for three years in Columbia
University. First a school-principal, then a practitioner of the law, he
followed at last the strongest propensity and turned author. His
literary work includes light operas, for which his brother, J. Rosamond
Johnson, composed the music, and a novel entitled <i>The Autobiography of
an Ex-Colored Man</i>. Having been United States consul in two
Latin-American countries, he is a master of Spanish and has made
translations of Spanish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> plays and poems. The English libretto of
<i>Goyescas</i> was made by him for the Metropolitan Opera Company in 1915.
He is also one of the ablest editorial writers in the country. In the
<i>Public Ledger’s</i> contest of 1916 he won the third prize. His editorials
are widely syndicated in the Negro weekly press. Poems of his have
appeared in <i>The Century</i>, <i>The Crisis</i>, and <i>The Independent</i>.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 202px;"><a name="ill_013" id="ill_013"></a>
<a href="images/i_091_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_091_sml.jpg" width="202" height="293" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">James Weldon Johnson</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Professor Brander Matthews in his Introduction to <i>Fifty Years and Other
Poems</i> speaks of “the superb and soaring stanzas” of the title-poem and
describes it as “a poem sonorous in its diction, vigorous in its
workmanship, elevated in its imagination, and sincere in its emotion.”
Doubtless this will seem like the language of exaggeration. The sceptic,
however, must withhold judgment until he has read the poem, too long for
presentation here. Mr. Johnson’s poetical qualities can be represented
in this place only by briefer though inferior productions. A poem of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span>
special significance, and characterized by the qualities noted by
Professor Matthews in “Fifty Years,” is the following:</p>
<p class="cpom">O SOUTHLAND!</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Southland! O Southland!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Have you not heard the call,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The trumpet blown, the word made known<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To the nations, one and all?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The watchword, the hope-word,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Salvation’s present plan?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A gospel new, for all—for you:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Man shall be saved by man.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Southland! O Southland!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Do you not hear to-day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The mighty beat of onward feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And know you not their way?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis forward, ’tis upward,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On to the fair white arch<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Freedom’s dome, and there is room<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For each man who would march.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Southland, fair Southland!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Then why do you still cling<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To an idle age and a musty page,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To a dead and useless thing?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis springtime! ’Tis work-time!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The world is young again!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And God’s above, and God is love,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And men are only men.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Southland! my Southland!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O birthland! do not shirk<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The toilsome task, nor respite ask,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But gird you for the work.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Remember, remember<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That weakness stalks in pride;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That he is strong who helps along<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The faint one at his side.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>For pure lyric beauty and exquisite pathos, Wordsworthian in both
respects, but no hint of imitation, the following stanzas may be set,
without disadvantage to them, by the side of any in our literature:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The glory of the day was in her face,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The beauty of the night was in her eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And over all her loveliness, the grace<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of Morning blushing in the early skies.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And in her voice, the calling of the dove;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like music of a sweet, melodious part.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And in her smile, the breaking light of love;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all the gentle virtues in her heart.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Yet one other poem of this fine singer’s I will give, selecting from not
a few that press for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> restricted space. The easy flow of the verse
and the ready rhyme will be remarked—and that supreme quality of good
lyric poetry, austere simplicity.</p>
<p class="cpom">THE YOUNG WARRIOR</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mother, shed no mournful tears,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But gird me on my sword;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And give no utterance to thy fears,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But bless me with thy word.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The lines are drawn! The fight is on!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A cause is to be won!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mother, look not so white and wan;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Give Godspeed to thy son.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Now let thine eyes my way pursue<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where’er my footsteps fare;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when they lead beyond thy view,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Send after me a prayer.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But pray not to defend from harm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor danger to dispel;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pray, rather, that with steadfast arm<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I fight the battle well.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My heart and purpose strong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My sword unsullied and ready to leap<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unsheathed against the wrong.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Arduous labors in other fields than poetry threaten to silence Mr.
Johnson’s muse, and that is to be regretted.</p>
<h4>2. <i>Charles Bertram Johnson</i></h4>
<p>School-teacher, preacher, poet—this is Charles Bertram Johnson of
Missouri. And in Missouri there is no voice more tuneful, no artistry in
song any finer, than his. Nor in so bold an assertion am I forgetting
the sweet voice and exquisite artistry of Sarah Teasdale. Mr. Johnson’s
art is not unlike hers in all that makes hers most charming. Only there
is not so much of his that attains to perfection of form. On pages 52
and 63 were given two of his quatrain poems. These were of his people.
But a lyric poet should sing himself. That is of the essence of lyric
poetry. In so singing, however, the poet reveals not only his individual
life, but that of his race to the view of the world. Another quatrain
poem, personal in form, may be accepted as of racial interpretation:</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_014" id="ill_014"></a>
<a href="images/i_095_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_095_sml.jpg" width="197" height="259" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Charles Bertram Johnson</span></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">SOUL AND STAR</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So oft from out the verge afar<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The dear dreams throng and throng,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sometimes I think my soul a star,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And life a pulséd song.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Born at Callao, Missouri, October 5, 1880, of a Kentucky mother and a
Virginia father, Charles Bertram Johnson attended a one-room school
“across the railroad track,” where—who can explain this?—he was
“Introduced to Bacon, Shakespeare, and the art of rhyming.” It reads
like an old story. Some freak of a schoolmaster whose head is filled
with “useless” lore—poetry, tales, and “such stuff”—nurturing a child
of genius into song. But it was Johnson’s mother who was the great
influence in his life. She was an “adept at rhyming” and “she initiated
me into the world of color and melody”—so writes our poet. It is always
the mother. Then, by chance—but how marvelously chance comes to the aid
of the predestined!—by chance, he learns of Dunbar and his poetry. The
ambition to be a poet of his people like Dunbar possesses him. He knows
the path to that goal is education. He therefore makes his way to a
little college at Macon, Missouri, from which, after five years, he is
graduated—without having received any help in the art of poetry,
however. Two terms at a summer school and special instruction by
correspondence seem to have aided<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> him here, or to have induced the
belief that he had been aided. For twenty-odd years he followed the
profession of teaching. For ten years of that period he also preached.
The ministry now claims his entire energies, and the muse knocks less
and less frequently at his door.</p>
<p>Yet he still sings. In a recent number of <i>The Crisis</i> I find a poem of
his that in suggesting a life of toil growing to a peaceful close is
filled with soothing melody:</p>
<p class="cpom">OLD FRIENDS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sit here before my grate,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Until it’s ashen gray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or till the night grows late,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And talk the time away.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I cannot think to sleep,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And miss your golden speech,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My bed of dreams will keep—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You here within my reach.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I have so much to say,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The time is short at best,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A bit of toil and play,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And after that comes rest.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But you and I know now<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The wisdom of the soul,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The years that seamed the brow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Have made our visions whole.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sit here before my grate<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Until the ash is cold;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The things you say of late<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Are fine as shriven gold.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Even though one be born to sing, if circumstances have made him a
preacher he may be expected to moralize his song. Whether we shall be
reconciled to this will depend on the art with which it is done. If the
moral idea be a sweet human one, and if the verse still be melifluous,
we will submit, and our delight will be twofold—ethical and esthetical.
We will put our preacher-poet of Missouri to the test:</p>
<p class="cpom">SO MUCH</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So much of love I need,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And tender passioned care,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of human fault and greed<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To make me unaware:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So much of love I owe,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That, ere my life be done,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How shall I keep His will<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To owe not any one?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Truth is, Mr. Johnson is not given to preaching in verse any more than
other poets. His sole aim is beauty. He assures me it is truth. Instead
of admitting disagreement I only assert that, being a poet, he must find
all truth beautiful. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> is only for relative thinking we need the three
terms, truth, goodness, and beauty.</p>
<p>I will conclude this presentation of the Missouri singer with a lyrical
sermonette:</p>
<p>A RAIN SONG</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Chill the rain falls, chill!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dull gray the world; the vale<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rain-swept; wind-swept the hill;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“But gloom and doubt prevail,”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My heart breaks forth to say.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ere thus its sorrow-note,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Cheer up! Cheer up, to-day!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To-morrow is to be!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Babbled from a joyous throat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A robin’s in a mist-gray tree.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then off to keep a tryst—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He preened his drabbled cloak—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Doughty little optimist!—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if in answer, broke<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sunlight through that oak.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>3. Fenton Johnson</i></h4>
<p>Dreams and visions—such are the treasures of suffering loyal hearts:
dreams, visions, and song. Happy even in their sorrows the people to
whom God has given poets to be their spokesmen to the world. Else their
hearts should stifle with woe. As the prophet was of old so in these
times the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> poet. As a prophet speaks Fenton Johnson, his heart yearning
toward the black folk of our land:</p>
<p class="cpom">THESE ARE MY PEOPLE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">These are my people, I have built for them<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A castle in the cloister of my heart;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I shall fight that they may dwell therein.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The God that gave Sojourner tongue of fire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Has made with me a righteous covenant<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That these, my brothers of the dusk, shall rise<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To Sinai and thence in purple walk<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A newer Canaan, vineyards of the West.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The rods that chasten us shall break as straw<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fire consume the godless in the South;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The hand that struck the helpless of my race<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall wither as a leaf in drear November,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And liberty, the nectar God has blest,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall flow as free as wine in Babylon.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O God of Covenants, forget us not!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Fenton Johnson seems to be more deeply rooted in the song-traditions of
his people than are most of his fellow-poets. To him the classic
Spirituals afford inspiration and pattern. Whoever is familiar with
those “canticles of love and woe” will recognize their influence
throughout Mr. Johnson’s three volumes of song. I shall make no attempt
here to illustrate this truth but shall rather select a piece or two
that will represent the poet’s general qualities. Other poems more
typical of him as a melodist could be found but these have special
traits that commend them for this place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">THE PLAINT OF THE FACTORY CHILD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mother, must I work all day?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All the day? Ay, all the day?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Must my little hands be torn?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And my heart bleed, all forlorn?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am but a child of five,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the street is all alive<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With the tops and balls and toys,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pretty tops and balls and toys.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Day in, day out, I toil—toil!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all that I know is toil;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Never laugh as others do,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Never cry as others do,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Never see the stars at night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor the golden glow of sunlight,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all for but a silver coin,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Just a worthless silver coin.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Would that death might come to me!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That blessed death might come to me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And lead me to waters cool,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lying in a tranquil pool,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Up there where the angels sing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the ivy tendrils cling<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the land of play and song,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fairy land of play and song.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE MULATTO’S SONG</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Die, you vain but sweet desires!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Die, you living, burning fires!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am like a Prince of France,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Like a prince whose noble sires<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have been robbed of heritage;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I am phantom derelict,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Drifting on a flaming sea.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Everywhere I go, I strive,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Vainly strive for greater things;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Daisies die, and stars are cold,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And canary never sings;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where I go they mock my name,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Never grant me liberty,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chance to breathe and chance to do.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p><i>The Vision of Lazarus</i>, contained in <i>A Little Dreaming</i>, is a
blank-verse poem of about three-hundred lines, original, well-sustained,
imaginative, and deeply impressive.</p>
<p>In one of the newer methods of verse, and yet with a splendid suggestion
of the old Spirituals, I will take from a recent magazine a poem by Mr.
Johnson that will show how the vision of his people is turned toward the
future, from the welter of struggling forces in the World War:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE NEW DAY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince of Peace hovering over No Man’s Land.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Loud the whistles blew and thunder of cannon was drowned by the happy shouting of the people.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant from the throats of white-robed angels:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Blow your trumpets, little children!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From the East and from the West,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i2">From the cities in the valley,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From God’s dwelling on the mountain,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Blow your blast that Peace might know<br /></span>
<span class="i2">She is Queen of God’s great army.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With the crying blood of millions<br /></span>
<span class="i2">We have written deep her name<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In the Book of all the Ages;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With the lilies in the valley,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With the roses by the Mersey,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With the golden flower of Jersey,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">We have crowned her smooth young temples.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where her footsteps cease to falter<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Golden grain will greet the morning,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where her chariot descends<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shall be broken down the altar<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of the gods of dark disturbance.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nevermore shall men know suffering,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nevermore shall women wailing<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shake to grief the God of Heaven.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From the East and from the West,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From the cities in the valley,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From God’s dwelling on the mountain,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Little children, blow your trumpets!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">From Ethiopia, groaning ’neath her heavy burdens I heard the music of the old slave songs.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the crimson in my veins leapt furiously:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In No Man’s Land that peace might come again!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i2">Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Red blood to save the freedom of the world!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">We were not free, our tawny hands were tied;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But Belgium’s plight and Serbia’s woes we shared<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Each rise of sun or setting of the moon.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So when the bugle blast had called us forth<br /></span>
<span class="i2">We went not like the surly brute of yore,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The freedom that we never knew nor shared.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As Samson in the temple of the gods;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Unloosen them and let us breathe the air<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For we have been with thee in No Man’s Land,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And now we ask of thee our liberty,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2">I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man’s Land.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4>4. <i>Adolphus Johnson</i></h4>
<p>From the <i>Preface</i> of Adolphus Johnson’s <i>The Silver Chord</i> I will take
a paragraph that is more poetic and perfect in expression than any
stanza in his book. Poetry, I think, is in him, but when he wrote these
rhymes he was not yet sufficiently disciplined in expression. But this
is how he can say a thing in prose:</p>
<p>“As the Goddess of Music takes down her lute, touches its silver chords,
and sets the summer melodies of nature to words, so an inspiration<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>
comes to me in my profoundest slumbers and gently awakens my highest
faculties to the finest thought and serenest contemplation herein
expressed. Always remember that a book is your best friend when it
compels you to think, disenthralls your reason, enkindles your hopes,
vivifies your imagination, and makes easier all the burdens of your
daily life.”</p>
<h4><i>IV. William Stanley Braithwaite</i></h4>
<p>The critical and the creative faculties rarely dwell together in
harmony. One or the other finally predominates. In the case of Mr.
Braithwaite it seems to be the critical faculty. He has preferred, it
seems, to be America’s chief anthologist, encouraging others up rugged
Parnassus, rather than himself to stand on the heights of song. Since
1913 he has edited a series of annual anthologies of American magazine
verse, which he has provided with critical reviews of the verse output
of the respective year. Of several anthologies of English verse also he
is the editor. Three books of original verse stand to his credit:
<i>Lyrics of Life and Love</i> (1904), <i>The House of Falling Leaves</i> (1908),
and <i>Sandy Star and Willie Gee</i> (1922). These dates seem to prove that
the creative impulse has waned.</p>
<p>Verse artistry, in simple forms, reaches a degree of excellence in Mr.
Braithwaite’s lyrics that has rarely been surpassed in our times.
Graceful and esthetically satisfying expression is given to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> elusive or
mystical and rare fancies. I will give one of his brief lyrics as an
example of the qualities to which I allude:</p>
<p class="cpom">SANDY STAR</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">No more from out the sunset,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">No more across the foam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No more across the windy hills<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Will Sandy Star come home.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He went away to search it,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With a curse upon his tongue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And in his hands the staff of life<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Made music as it swung.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I wonder if he found it,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And knows the mystery now:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our Sandy Star who went away<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With the secret on his brow.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In a number of Mr. Braithwaite’s lyrics, as in this one, there is an
atmosphere of mystery that, with the charming simplicity of manner,
strongly suggests Blake. There is a strangeness in all beauty, it has
been said. There is commonly something of Faëryland in the finest lyric
poetry. Another lyric illustrating this quality in Mr. Braithwaite is
the following:</p>
<p class="cpom">IT’S A LONG WAY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It’s a long way the sea-winds blow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Over the sea-plains blue,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But longer far has my heart to go<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Before its dreams come true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It’s work we must, and love we must,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And do the best we may,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And take the hope of dreams in trust<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To keep us day by day.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It’s a long way the sea-winds blow—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But somewhere lies a shore—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thus down the tide of Time shall flow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My dreams forevermore.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Mr. Braithwaite’s art rises above race. He seems not to be
race-conscious in his writing, whether prose or verse. Yet no man can
say but that race has given his poetry the distinctive quality I have
indicated. In this connection a most interesting poem is his “A New
England Spinster.” The detachment is perfect, the analysis is done in
the spirit of absolute art. I will quote but two of its dozen or so
stanzas:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She dwells alone, and never heeds<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How strange may sound her own footfall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And yet is prompt to others’ needs,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or ready at a neighbor’s call.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But still her world is one apart,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Serene above desire and change;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There are no hills beyond her heart,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Beyond her gate, no winds that range.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Here is the true artist’s imagination that penetrates to the secrets of
life. No poet’s lyrics, with their deceptive simplicity, better reward
study for a full appreciation of their idea. So<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> much of suggestion to
the reader of the poems which follow:</p>
<p class="cpom">FOSCATI</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Blest be Foscati! You’ve heard tell<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How—spirit and flesh of him—blown to flame,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Leaped the stars for heaven, dropped back to hell,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And felt no shame.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I here indite this record of his journey:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The splendor of his epical will to perform<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Life’s best, with the lance of Truth at Tourney—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till caught in the storm.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Of a woman’s face and hair like scented clover,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Te Deums, Lauds, and Magnificat, he<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Praised with tongue of saint, heart of lover—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Missed all, but found Foscati!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">AUTUMN SADNESS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The warm October rain fell upon his dream,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When once again the autumn sadness stirred,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And murmured through his blood, like a hidden stream<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In a forest, unheard.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The drowsy rain battered against his delight<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of the half forgotten poignancies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That settle in the dusk of an autumn night<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On a world one hears and sees.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">One was, he thought, an echo merely,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A glow enshadowed of truths untraced;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But the autumn sadness, brought him yearly,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Was a joy embraced.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THANKING GOD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The way folks had of thanking God<br /></span>
<span class="i2">He found annoying, till he thought<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of flame and coolness in the sod—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of balms and blessings that they wrought.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And so the habit grew, and then—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of when and how he did not care—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He found his God as other men<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The mystic verb in a grammar of prayer.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He never knelt, nor uttered words—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">His laughter felt no chastening rod;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“My being,” he said, “is a choir of birds,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And all my senses are thanking God.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Mr. Braithwaite is thoroughly conversant, as these selections indicate,
with the subtleties and finest effects of the art poetic, and his
impulses to write spring from the deepest human speculations, the purest
motives of art. Hence in his work he takes his place among the few.</p>
<h4><i>V. George Reginald Margetson</i></h4>
<p>Under tropical suns, amid the tropical luxuriance of nature, developed
the many-hued imagination of the subject of this sketch. His nature is
tropical, for Mr. Margetson is a prolific bard: <i>Songs of Life</i>, <i>The
Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society</i>, <i>Ethiopia’s Flight</i>, <i>England in
the West Indies</i>—four published books, and more yet un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span>published—are
proof. No excerpts can fully reveal the distinctive quality of Mr.
Margetson’s poetry—its sonorous and ever-varying flow, like a mountain
stream, its descriptive richness in which it resembles his native
islands. For he was born in the British West Indies, and there lived the
first twenty years of his life. Coming to America in 1897, his home has
been in Boston or its environment since that time. Educated in the
Moravian School at St. Kitts, he has lived with and in the English poets
from Spenser to Byron—Byron seems to have been his favorite—and so has
cultivated his native talent. I can give here but one brief lyric from
his pen.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_015" id="ill_015"></a>
<a href="images/i_110_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_110_sml.jpg" width="196" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">George Reginald Margetson</span></p></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE LIGHT OF VICTORY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In the East a star is rising,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Breaking through the clouds of war,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With a light old arts revising<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shattering steel and iron bar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Freedom’s heirs with banners blazing,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Emblems of Democracy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At the magic light are gazing<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Battling with Autocracy.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Through the night brave souls are marching<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With the armies of the Free;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where the Stars and Stripes o’er-arching<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Form a sheltering canopy.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Allies! hold a front united!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shaping well our destiny;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let each brutal wrong be righted<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In the drive for Liberty!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>VI. William Moore</i></h4>
<p>The productions I have seen in the Negro magazines and newspapers from
William Moore’s pen give me the idea of a poet distinctly original and
distinctly endowed with imagination. If there appears some obscurity in
his poems let it not be too hastily set down against him as a fault.
Some ideas are intrinsically obscure. The expression of them that should
be lucid would be false, inadequate. Some poets there needs must be who,
escaping from the inevitable, the commonplace, will transport us out
into infinity to confront the eternal mysteries. Mr. Moore does this in
two sonnets which I will give to represent his poetic work:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">EXPECTANCY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I do not care for sleep, I’ll wait awhile<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For Love to come out of the darkness, wait<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For laughter, gifted with the frequent fate<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of dusk-lit hope, to touch me with the smile<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of moon and star and joy of that last mile<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before I reach the sea. The ships are late<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And mayhap laden with the precious freight<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dawn brings from Life’s eternal summer isle.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And should I find the sweeter fruits of dream—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The oranges of love and mating song—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll laugh so true the morn will gayly seem<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Endless and ships full laden with a throng<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of beauty, dreams and loves will come to me<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out of the surge of yonder silver sea.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">AS THE OLD YEAR PASSED</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I stood with dear friend Death awhile last night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out where the stars shone with a lustre true<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In sacred dreams and all the old and new<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of love and life winged in a silver flight<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Off to the sea of peace that waits where white,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pale silences melt in the tranquil blue<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of skies so tender beauty doth imbue<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The time with holiness and singing light.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My heart is Life, my soul, O Death, is thine!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is thine to kiss with yearning life again,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is thine to strengthen and to sweet incline<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To peace and mellowed dream of joy’s refrain.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll stand with Death again to-night, I think,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Out where the stars reveal life’s deeper brink.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>VII. Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</i></h4>
<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_016" id="ill_016"></a>
<a href="images/i_113_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_113_sml.jpg" width="196" height="266" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Poets are born and nurtured in all conditions of life: Joseph Cotter the
elder was a slave-woman’s child; Dunbar wrote his first book between the
runs of the elevator he tended; Leon R. Harris was left in infancy to
the dreary shelter of an orphanage, then indentured to a brutal farmer;
Carmichael came from the cabin of an unlettered farmer in the Black Belt
of Alabama; of a dozen others the story is similar. Born in poverty, up
through adversities they struggled, with little human help save perhaps
from the croons and caresses of a singing mother, and a few terms at a
wretched school, they toiled into the kingdom of knowledge and entered
the world of poetry. Some, however, have had the advantages afforded by
parents of culture and of means. Among these is the subject of this
sketch, the son of Bishop J. H. Jones, of the African Methodist
Episcopal Church. He has had the best educa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span>tional opportunity offered
by American colleges. He is a graduate of Brown University. Writing has
been his employment since graduation, and he has been on the staffs of
several New England papers. His first book of poems, entitled <i>The Heart
of the World</i> (1919), now in the second edition, reveals at once a
student of poetry and an independent artist in verse. His second book,
<i>Poems of the Four Seas</i> (1921), shows that his vein is still rich in
ore.</p>
<p>In Chapter VIII I give his “Goodbye, Old Year.” Another poem of similar
technique takes for its title the last words of Colonel Roosevelt: “Turn
out the light, please.” The reader cannot but note the sense of proper
effect exhibited in the short sentences, the very manner of a dying man.
But more than this will be perceived in this poem. It will seem to have
sprung out of the world-weary soul of the young poet himself. Struggle,
grief, weariness in the strife, have been his also. Hence:</p>
<p class="cpom">TURN OUT THE LIGHT</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Turn out the light. Now would I slumber,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’m weary with the toil of day.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let me forget my pains to number.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Turn out the light. Dreams come to play.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Turn out the light. The hours were dreary.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Clouds of despair long hid the sun.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ve battled hard and now I’m weary.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Turn out the light. My day is done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’ve done life’s best gloom’s ways to brighten—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’ve scattered cheer from heart to heart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And where I could I’ve sought to righten<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The wrongs of men ere day depart.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">This morn ’twas bright with hope—and cheery.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">This noon gave courage—made me brave.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But as the sun sank I grew weary<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till now my soul for rest doth crave.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Turn out the light. I’ve done my duty<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To friend and enemy as well.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I go to sleep where things of beauty<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In glitt’ring chambers ever dwell.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Turn out the light. Now would I slumber.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To rest—to dream—soon go we all.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let’s hope we wake soul free of cumber.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Turn out the light. Dream comrades call.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The next piece I select from Mr. Jones’s first book will represent his
talent in another sphere. I suggest that comparison might be made
between this song in literary English and Mr. Johnson’s Negro love song
in dialect, page <a href="#page_226">226.</a></p>
<p class="cpom">A SOUTHERN LOVE SONG</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i6">Dogwoods all a-bloom<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Perfume earth’s big room,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">White full moon is gliding o’er the sky serene.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Quiet reigns about,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">In the house and out;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hoot owl in the hollow mopes with solemn mien.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Birds have gone to rest<br /></span>
<span class="i6">In each tree-top nest;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Cotton fields a-shimmer flash forth silver-green.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i6">O’er the wild cane brake,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Whip-poor-wills awake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And they speak in tender voicings, Heart, of You.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Answering my call,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Through the leafy hall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Telling how I’m waiting for your tripping, Sue.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">All the world is glad,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Just because I’m mad.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sense-bereft am I through my great love for you.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i6">Night is all a-smile,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Happy all the while.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That is why my heart so filled with song o’erflows.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">I have tarried long,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Lilting here my song.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I’ll ever waiting be till life’s step slows.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Come to me, my girl,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Precious more than pearl,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll be waiting for you where the grapevine grows.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i6">How my heart doth yearn,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">And with anguish burn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hungry for sweet pains awaked with your embrace.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Starward goes my cry.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Echo hears my sigh.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heaven itself its pity at my plight shows trace.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Parson waits to wed.<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Soon the nuptials said.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ve a rose-clad cottage reared for you to grace.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>The title-piece of Mr. Jones’s first volume reveals his mastery of
effective form and his command of the language of passionate appeal. The
World War, in which the Negroes of the country gave liberally and
heroically, both of blood and treasure, for democracy, quickened failing
hopes in them and kindled anew their aspirations. In this poem the
writer speaks for his entire race:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE HEART OF THE WORLD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call for peace—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Up-surging, symphonic roar.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis ill of all clashings; it seeks release<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From fetters of greed and gore.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The winds of the battlefields echo the sigh<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of heroes slumbering deep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who gave all they had and now dreamlessly lie<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where the bayonets sent them to sleep.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Peace for the wealthy; peace for the poor;</i><br /></span>
<span class="i2"><i>Peace on the hillside, and peace on the moor.</i><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call for right:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For fingers to bind up the wound,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Slashed deep by the ruthless, harsh hand of might,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When Justice is crushed to the ground.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Tis ill of the fevers of fear of the strong—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of jealousies—prejudice—pride.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Is there no ideal that’s proof against wrong?”<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Man asks of the man at his side.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Right for the lowly; right for the great;</i><br /></span>
<span class="i2"><i>Right all to pilot to happiness’ gate.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call for love:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">White heart—Red—Yellow—and Black.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Each face turns to Bethlehem’s bright star above,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Though wolves of self howl at each back.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The whole earth is lifting its voice in a prayer<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That nations may learn to endure,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Without killing and maiming, but doing what’s fair<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With a soul that is noble and pure.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>Love in weak peoples; love in the strong;</i><br /></span>
<span class="i2"><i>Love that will banish all hatred and wrong.</i><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call of God;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">East—West—and North—and South.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stirring, deep-yearning, breast-heaving call for God<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A-tremble behind each mouth.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The heart’s ill of torments that rend men’s souls.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Skyward lift all faiths and hopes;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Across all the oceans the evidence rolls,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Refreshing all life’s arid slopes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i2"><i>God in the highborn; God in the low;</i><br /></span>
<span class="i2"><i>God calls us, world-brothers. Hark ye! and know.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>From <i>Poems of the Four Seas</i> I will take a piece that gives the Negro
background for the yearning expressed in the foregoing poem:</p>
<p class="cpom">BROTHERS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They bind his feet; they thong his hands<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With hard hemp rope and iron bands.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They scourge his back in ghoulish glee;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bleed his flesh;—men, mark ye—free.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">They still his groans with fiendish shout,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where flesh streams red they ply the knout.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thus sons of men feed lust to kill<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And yet, oh God! they’re brothers still.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They build a pyre of torch and flame<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While Justice weeps in deepest shame.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">E’en Death in pity bows its head,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet ’midst these men no prayer is said.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They gather up charred flesh and bone—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mementos—boasting brave deed done.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They sip of gore their souls to fill;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Drink deep of blood their hands did spill.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Go tell the world what men have done<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who prate of God and yet have none;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Think of themselves as wholly good,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blaspheme the name of brotherhood;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who hearken not as brothers cry<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For brother’s chance to live and die.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To keep a demon’s murder tryst<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They’d rend the sepulcher of Christ.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>VIII. Walter Everette Hawkins</i></h4>
<p class="cpom">CREDO</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">I am an Iconoclast.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I break the limbs of idols<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And smash the traditions of men.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">I am an Anarchist.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I believe in war and destruction—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Not in the killing of men,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But the killing of creed and custom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">I am an Agnostic.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I accept nothing without questioning.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It is my inherent right and duty<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To ask the reason why.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To accept without a reason<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is to debase one’s humanity<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And destroy the fundamental process<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the ascertainment of Truth.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">I believe in Justice and Freedom.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To me Liberty is priestly and kingly;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Freedom is my Bride,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Liberty my Angel of Light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Justice my God.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i4">I oppose all laws of state or country,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All creeds of church and social orders,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All conventionalities of society and system<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which cross the path of the light of Freedom<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or obstruct the reign of Right.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>This is a faithful self-characterization—such a man in reality is
Walter Everette Hawkins. A fearless and independent and challenging
spirit. He is the rare kind of man that must put everything to the
severe test of absolute principles. He hates shams, hypocrisies,
compromises, chicaneries, injustices. His poems are the bold and
faithful expressions of his personality. Free he has ever been, free he
will be ever, striking right out for freedom and truth. Such a
personality is refreshing to meet, whether you encounter it in the flesh
or in a book.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span></p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 199px;"><a name="ill_017" id="ill_017"></a>
<a href="images/i_121_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_121_sml.jpg" width="199" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Walter Everette Hawkins</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Born about thirty-five years ago, on a little farm in North Carolina,
the thirteenth child of ex-slave parents, young Hawkins, one may
imagine, was not opulent in this world’s goods. Nor were his
opportunities such as are usually considered thrilling. A few terms of
miserable schooling in the village of Warrenton, the fragments of a few
more terms in a school maintained by the African Methodist Church,
then—“the University of Hard Knocks.” In the two first-named schools
the independent-spirited lad seems not to have gotten along well with
his teachers, hence a few dismissals. Always too prone to ask
troublesome, challenging questions, too prone to doubts and reflections,
he was thought incorrigible. In his “University” he chose his own
masters—the great free spirits of the ages—and at the feet of these he
was teachable, even while the knocks were hardest.</p>
<p>A lover of wild nature and able to commune with nature’s spirit, deeply
fond also of commun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>ing with the world’s master minds in books, Mr.
Hawkins is by necessity—while his spirit soars—the slave of routine
toil, being, until recently, a mail clerk in the post office of the City
of Washington. “My only recreation,” he writes me, “is in stealing away
to be with the masters, the intellectual dynamos, of the world, who
converse with me without wincing and deliver me the key to life’s
riddle.”</p>
<p>A true expression of himself I said Mr. Hawkins’s poems are. In no
degree are they fictions. As a companion to <i>Credo</i>, quoted to introduce
him, I will give the last poem in his book, which will again set him
before us as he is:</p>
<p class="cpom">HERO OF THE ROAD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Let me seek no statesman’s mantle,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Let me seek no victor’s wreath,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let my sword unstained in battle<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Still lie rusting in its sheath;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let my garments be unsullied,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Let no man’s blood to me cling;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Life is love and earth is heaven,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">If I may but soar and sing.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">This then is my sternest struggle,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ease the load and sing my song,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lift the lame and cheer the cheerless<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As they plod the road along;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And we see ourselves transfigured<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In a new and bigger plan;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Man transformed, his own Messiah,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">God embodied into man.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>For the whining craven class of men Mr. Hawkins has little respect:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The man who complains<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When the world is all song,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or dares to sit mute<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When the world is all wrong;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who barters his freedom<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Vile honors to win,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Deserves but to die<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With the vilest of men.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Upon the times in which we live his judgment is severe. His
condemnation, however, bears witness to that earnestness of soul and
that idealism of spirit which will not let the world repose in its
wickedness. From a list of several poems attesting this I select the
following as perhaps the most complete in form:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE DEATH OF JUSTICE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">These the dread days which the seers have foretold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">These the fell years which the prophets have dreamed;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Visions they saw in those full days of old,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The fathers have sinned and the children blasphemed.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We have come to the travail of troublous times,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Justice must bow before Moloch and Baal;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blasphemous prayers for the triumph of crimes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">High sounds the cry of the children who wail.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In the brute strength of the sword men rely,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They count not Justice in reckoning things;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whom their lips worship their hearts crucify,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This the oblation the votary brings.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Locked in death-struggle humanity’s host,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seeking revenge with the dagger and sword;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This is the pride which the Pharisees boast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Man damns his brother in the name of his Lord.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Time dims the glare of the pomp and applause,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Vainglorious monarchs and proud princes fall;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until the death of Time revokes his laws,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His awful mandate shall reign over all.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>A number of Mr. Hawkins’s productions reveal possibilities of beauty and
effectiveness, which he had not the patience or the skill to realize.
One imagines that he has never been able to bring his spirit to a
submissive study of the minutiæ of metrical composition. A poet <i>in
esse</i>—or <i>in posse</i>—is all that nature ever makes. And even the most
free spirit must know well the traditions. Whether this iconoclast knows
the Cavalier traditions of English poetry may be left to conjecture, but
the following piece, illustrating Mr. Hawkins’s faults and virtues as a
singer, will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> prove his kinship to the poetic tribe of which Lovelace
and Suckling were conspicuous members:</p>
<p class="cpom">ASK ME WHY I LOVE YOU</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And I will ask the rose<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why it loves the dews of Spring<br /></span>
<span class="i2">At the Winter’s close;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why the blossoms’ nectared sweets<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Loved by questing bee,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I will gladly answer you,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">If they answer me.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I will ask the flower<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why it loves the Summer sun,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or the Summer shower;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I will ask the lover’s heart<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Why it loves the moon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or the star-besprinkled skies<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In a night in June.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I will ask the vine<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why its tendrils trustingly<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Round the oak entwine;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why you love the mignonette<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Better than the rue,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If you will but answer me,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I will answer you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Let the lark reply,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why his heart is full of song<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When the twilight’s nigh;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why the lover heaves a sigh<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When her heart is true;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If you will but answer me,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I will answer you.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>IX. Claude McKay</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_018" id="ill_018"></a>
<a href="images/i_126_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_126_sml.jpg" width="194" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Claude McKay</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>An English subject, being born and growing to manhood in Jamaica, Claude
McKay, a pure blood Negro, was first discovered as a poet by English
critics. In Jamaica, as early as 1911, when he was but twenty-two years
of age, his <i>Constab Ballads</i>, in Negro dialect, was published. Even in
so broken a tongue this book revealed a poet—on the constabulary force
of Jamaica. In 1920 his first book of poems in literary English, <i>Spring
in New Hamp-Shire</i>, came out in England, with a <i>Preface</i> by Mr. I. A.
Richards, of Cambridge, England.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> Meanwhile, shortly after the
publication of his first book, he had come to the United States.</p>
<p>Here he has worked at various occupations, has taken courses in
Agriculture and English in the Kansas State College, and has thus become
acquainted with life in the States. He is now on the editorial staff of
the <i>Liberator</i>, New York. There has been no poet of his race who has
more poignantly felt and more artistically expressed the life of the
American Negro. His poetry is a most noteworthy contribution to
literature. From <i>Spring in New Hampshire</i> I am privileged to take a
number of poems which will follow without comment:</p>
<p class="cpom">SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Too green the springing April grass,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Too blue the silver-speckled sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For me to linger here, alas,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">While happy winds go laughing by,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wasting the golden hours indoors,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Washing windows and scrubbing floors.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Too wonderful the April night,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The stars too gloriously bright,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For me to spend the evening hours,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE LYNCHING</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His Father, by the cruelest way of pain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Had bidden him to his bosom once again;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The awful sin remained still unforgiven:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All night a bright and solitary star<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(Perchance the one that ever guided him,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet gave him up at last to Fate’s wild whim)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hung pitifully o’er the swinging char.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ghastly body swaying in the sun:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The women thronged to look, but never a one<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And little lads, lynchers that were to be,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE HARLEM DANCER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blown by black players upon a picnic day.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The light gauze hanging loose about her form;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon her swarthy neck, black, shiny curls<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Devoured her with eager, passionate gaze:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But, looking at her falsely-smiling face,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I knew her self was not in that strange place.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">IN BONDAGE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I would be wandering in distant fields<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where man, and bird, and beast live leisurely,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the old earth is kind and ever yields<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her goodly gifts to all her children free;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where life is fairer, lighter, less demanding,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And boys and girls have time and space for play<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before they come to years of understanding,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Somewhere I would be singing, far away;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For life is greater than the thousand wars<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Men wage for it in their insatiate lust,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And will remain like the eternal stars<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When all that is to-day is ashes and dust:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But I am bound with you in your mean graves,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, black men, simple slaves of ruthless slaves.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Distinction of idea and phrase inheres in these poems. In them the Negro
is esthetically conceived, and interpreted with vision. This is art
working as it should. Mr. McKay has passion and the control of it to the
ends of art. He has the poet’s insight, the poet’s understanding.</p>
<p>Perhaps the most arresting poem in this list, and the one most surely
attesting the genius of the writer, is <i>The Harlem Dancer</i>. It is an
achievement in portrayal sufficient by itself to establish a poetic
reputation. The divination that penetrates to the secret purity of soul,
or nobleness of character, through denying appearances—how rare is the
faculty, and how necessary! Elsewhere I give a poem from a Negro woman
which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> evinces the same divine gift in the author, exhibited in a poem
no less original and no less deeply impressive—Mrs. Spencer’s <i>At the
Carnival</i>. Here I will companion <i>The Harlem Dancer</i> with one from Mr.
Dandridge, for the comparison will deepen the effect of each:</p>
<p class="cpom">ZALKA PEETRUZA</p>
<p class="c">(<i>Who Was Christened Lucy Jane</i>)</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With swaying arms and flying feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her all was dancing—save her face.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A conscience, dumb to brooding fears,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Companioned hearing deaf to cheers;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A body, marshalled by the will,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Kept dancing while a heart stood still:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And eyes obsessed with vacant stare<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Looked over heads to empty air,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As though they sought to find therein<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Redemption for a maiden sin.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Twas thus, amid force-driven grace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We found the lost look on her face;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then, to us, did it occur<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That, though we saw—we saw not her.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Returning to Mr. McKay, we may assert that his new volume of verse,
<i>Harlem Shadows</i>, con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span>firms and enhances the estimate of him we have
expressed.</p>
<h4><i>X. Leslie Pinckney Hill</i></h4>
<div class="figright" style="width: 191px;"><a name="ill_019" id="ill_019"></a>
<a href="images/i_131_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_131_sml.jpg" width="191" height="260" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Leslie Pinckney Hill</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Bearing the diploma of the Lyric Muse, Mr. Leslie Pinckney Hill,
schoolmaster of Cheyney, Pennsylvania, and authentic singer, is one of
the newest arrivals on the slopes of Parnassus. A first glance tells
that he is an agile climber, sinewy, easy of movement, light of step,
with both grace and strength. Every indication in form and motion is for
some point far up toward the summit. Youthful he is, ambitious, plainly,
and, in spite of a burden, buoyant. “Climber,” I said. I will drop the
figure. Poets were never pedestrians. Mr. Hill comes not afoot. If not
on the wings of Pegasus, yet on wings he comes—<i>the wings of
oppression</i>. Sad wings! yet it must be remarked that it is commonly on
such wings that poets of whatever race and time rise. And Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> Hill’s
race knows no other wings. On the wings of oppression the Negro poet and
the Negro people are rising toward the summits of Parnassus, Pisgah, and
other peaks. This they know, too, and of it they are justly proud.</p>
<p>In his <i>Foreword</i> Mr. Hill thus states the case of his people, and, by
implication, of himself: “Nothing in the life of the nation has seemed
to me more significant than that dark civilization which the colored man
has built up in the midst of a white society organized against it. The
Negro has been driven under all the burdens of oppression, both material
and spiritual, to the brink of desperation, but he has always been saved
by his philosophy of life. He has advanced against all opposition by a
certain elevation of his spirit. He has been made strong in tribulation.
He has constrained oppression to give him wings.”</p>
<p>The significant thing about these wings, in a critical view, is that
they fulfill the proper function of wings—bear aloft and sustain in
flight through the azure depths. Mr. Hill’s wings do bear aloft and
sustain: if not always, nor even ever, into the very empyrean of poetry
yet invariably, seventy times, into the ampler air. Like all his race,
he has suffered much; and, like all his race still, he has gathered
wisdom from sorrow. As a true poet should have, he has philosophy, also
vision and imagination—vision for himself and his people, imagination
that sees facts in terms of beauty and presents truths with vital<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span>
imagery. Add thereto craftsmanship acquired in the best traditions of
English poetry and you have Hill the poet.</p>
<p>The merit of his book cannot be shown by lines and stanzas. As ever with
true art, the merit lies in the whole effect of complete poems. Still,
we may here first detach from this and that poem a stanza or two,
despite the wrong to art. The first and fourth stanzas of the title-poem
will indicate Mr. Hill’s technique and philosophy:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I have a song that few will sing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In honor of all suffering,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A song to which my heart can bring<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The homage of believing—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A song the heavy-laden hears<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Above the clamor of his fears,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While still he walks with blinding tears,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And drains the cup of grieving.<br /></span>
<span class="ispc1">******<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So long as life is steeped in wrong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And nations cry: “How long, how long!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I look not to the wise and strong<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For peace and self-possession;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But right will rise, and mercy shine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And justice lift her conquering sign<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where lowly people starve and pine<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath a world oppression.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The character and temper of the Negro in those gentler aspects which
make such an appeal to the heart are revealed in the following sonnet:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">MATER DOLOROSA</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O mother, there are moments when I know<br /></span>
<span class="i0">God’s presence to the full. The city street<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May wrap me in the tumult and the heat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of futile striving; bitter winds may blow<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With winter-wilting freeze of hail and snow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all my hopes lie shattered in defeat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in my heart the springtime blossoms sweet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And heaven seems very near the way I go.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">These moments are the angels of that prayer<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which thou hast breathed for many a troubled year<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With bended knee and swarthy-streaming face—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Uphold him, Father, with a double care:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He is but mortal, yet his days must bear<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The world cross, and the burden of his race.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>If these poems, taken collectively, do not declare “what is on the
Negro’s mind” they yet truly reveal, to the reflecting person, what has
sunk deep into his heart. They are therefore a message to America, a
protest, an appeal, and a warning. They will penetrate, I predict,
through breast-armor of <i>aes triplex</i> into the hearts of those whom
sermons and editorials fail to touch in the springs of action. Such is
the virtue of music wed to persuasive words. In strong lines of soaring
blank verse, in which Mr. Hill is particularly capable, he makes a
direct appeal to America in behalf of his people, in a poem entitled
Armageddon:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Because ye schooled them in the arts of life,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And gave to them your God, and poured your blood<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Into their veins to make them what they are,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They shall not fail you in the hour of need.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They own in them enough of you to feel<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All that has made you masters in your time—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dear art and riches, unremitting toil,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Proud types of beauty, an unbounded will<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To triumph, wondrous science and old law—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">These have they learned to covet and to share.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But deeper in them still is something steeled<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To hot abhorrence and unmeasured dread<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of your undaunted sins against the light—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Red sins of lust, of envy and of hate,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of guilty gain extorted from the weak,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of brotherhood traduced, and God denied.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All this have they beheld without revolt,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And borne the brunt in agonizing prayer.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For other strains of blood that flow from times<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Older than Egypt, whence the dark man gave<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The rudiments of learning to all lands,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have been a strong constraint. And they have dreamed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of a peculiar mission under heaven,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And felt the force of unexampled gifts<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That make for them a rare inheritance—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The gift of cheerful confidence in man,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The gift of calm endurance, solacing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An infinite capacity for pain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The gift of an unfeigned humility,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blinding the eyes of strident arrogance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bigot pride to that philosophy<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And that far-glancing wisdom which it veils,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of joy in beauty, hardihood in toil,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of hope in tribulation, and of wide<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Adaptive power without a parallel<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In chronicles of men.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>A sonnet entitled <i>To a Caged Canary in a Negro Restaurant</i> will present
the poet’s people with the persuasiveness of pathos as the foregoing
poem with the persuasiveness of reason:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thou little golden bird of happy song!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A cage cannot restrain the rapturous joy<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which thou dost shed abroad. Thou dost employ<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy bondage for high uses. Grievous wrong<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is thine; yet in thy heart glows full and strong<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The tropic sun, though far beyond thy flight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And though thou flutterest there by day and night<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Above the clamor of a dusky throng.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So let my will, albeit hedged about<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By creed and caste, feed on the light within;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So let my song sing through the bars of doubt<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With light and healing where despair has been;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So let my people bide their time and place,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A hindered but a sunny-hearted race.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>It would be an injustice to this poet did I convey the idea that his
seventy-odd poems are exclusively occupied with race wrongs and
oppression. Not a few of them bear no stamp of an oppressed or afflicted
spirit, though of sorrow they may have been nurtured.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span></p>
<p>A lyric of pure loveliness is the following, entitled</p>
<p class="cpom">TO A NOBLY-GIFTED SINGER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All the pleasance of her face<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Telleth of an inward grace;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In her dark eyes I have seen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sorrows of the Nazarene;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the proud and perfect mould<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of her body I behold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rounded in a single view,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The good, the beautiful, the true;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when her spirit goes up-winging<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On sweet airs of artless singing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Surely the heavenly spheres rejoice<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In union with a kindred voice.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Schoolmaster I said Mr. Hill was. To represent his didactic quality, not
his purer lyrical note, nor yet his narrative beauty, I choose the
following piece:</p>
<p class="cpom">SELF-DETERMINATION</p>
<h4><i>The Philosophy of the American Negro</i></h4>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Four things we will not do, in spite of all<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That demons plot for our decline and fall;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We bring four benedictions which the meek<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Unto the proud are privileged to speak,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Four gifts by which amidst all stern-browed races<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We move with kindly hearts and shining faces.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>We will not hate.</i> Law, custom, creed and caste,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All notwithstanding, here we hold us fast.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Down through the years the mighty ships of state<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have all been broken on the rocks of hate.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>We will not cease to laugh and multiply.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">We slough off trouble, and refuse to die.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Indian stood unyielding, stark and grim;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We saw him perish, and we learned of him<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To mix a grain of philosophic mirth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With all the crass injustices of earth.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>We will not use the ancient carnal tools.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">These never won, yet centuries of schools,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of priests, and all the work of brush and pen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have not availed to win the wisest men<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From futile faith in battleship and shell:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We see them fall, and mark that folly well.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>We will not waver in our loyalty.</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">No strange voice reaches us across the sea;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No crime at home shall stir us from this soil.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ours is the guerdon, ours the blight of toil,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But raised above it by a faith sublime<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We choose to suffer <i>here</i> and bide our time.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And if we hold to this, we dream some day<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our countrymen will follow in our way.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>But though teacher Leslie Pinckney Hill is singer too. And though he has
a message for America he also has music. His powers are rich, varied,
cultured, and developing. His second book will be better than his
excellent first.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br /><br />
<small>THE HEART OF NEGRO WOMANHOOD</small></h2>
<h4><i>I. Miss Eva A. Jessye</i></h4>
<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_020" id="ill_020"></a>
<a href="images/i_139_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_139_sml.jpg" width="194" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Miss Eva A. Jessye</span></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">From</span> newspapers I have clipt several poems by Miss Jessye that exhibit a
nature touched to the finer things of the world and of life. She has
fancy, and skill in expression. I concluded section I of chapter II with
a poem of hers, and I will here give two more. The first, in a lighter
vein, betrays the human nature of a school-teacher in the midst of her
vexations while she tries to appear above the reach of common desires.</p>
<p class="cpom">SPRING WITH THE TEACHER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Tis now the time of silver moon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of swelling bud and fancies free<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As western winds, but then, ah me!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May cannot come too soon;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The rover calls in every child,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And sets his pulses running wild!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Do stop that noise and take your seat!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Joe, learn to study quietly!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why girl, it surely has me beat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How you forget geography!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brazil’s in Spain? Here, close that book!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What caused the Civil War, you say?—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Suzanna says somebody took<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her beads; return them right away!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Now boy, I told you once before<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To put that story book away!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll call the roll: Beatrice Moore,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why were you absent yesterday?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why yes, I heard that mocking bird.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lee Arthur, straighten up your face!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Well, surely, class, you never heard<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of adverbs having tense and case!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Now, James, explain the term ‘per cent,’<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My, my, ’tis surely not forgot!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If it were fun or devilment<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You’d know it all, sir, like as not!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who put that bent pin in my chair?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">No one of course—bent pins can walk!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll tell you though, had I sat there<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’d make these straps and switches talk.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“A picnic on for Saturday?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">(I wish that I were going, too!)<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, no! I couldn’t get away,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I have so many things to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Well, there’s the bell! Goodbye, goodbye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And be good children, don’t forget.”—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Well, thank the Lord they’re gone, but I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Can hear their joyous laughter yet.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Tis now the time of silver moon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of swelling bud and fancies free<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As western winds, but then, ah me!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May cannot come too soon!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Though the moral motive is rarely consistent with the artistic, yet in
the next poem of Miss Jessye’s I shall give there is a perfect
reconciliation. Original no doubt is the idea of this poem, but Sappho,
it seems to me, as one of her fragments bears witness, had meditated
upon the very same idea twenty-five centuries ago.</p>
<p class="cpom">TO A ROSEBUD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O dainty bud, I hold thee in my hand—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A castaway, a dead, a lifeless thing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A few days since I saw thee, wet with dew,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A bud of promise to thy parent cling,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Now thou art crushed yet lovely as before,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The adverse winds but waft thy fragrance more.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How small, how frail! I tread thee underfoot<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And crush thy petals in the reeking ground:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Perchance some one in pity for thy state<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will pick thee up in reverence profound—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lo, thou art pure with virtue more intense,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy perfume grows from earthly detriments.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why do we grieve? Let each affliction bear<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A greater beauty springing from the sod,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May sweetness well as incense from the urn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Which, rising high, enshrouds the throne of God.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Envoy of Hope, this lesson I disclose—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Be Ever Sweet,” thou humble, fragrant rose!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Miss Jessye, now a teacher of the piano in Muskogee, Oklahoma, was born
in Kansas and was graduated from Western University. She has taken
prizes in oratory, poetry, and essay-writing. Yet in her early twenties,
she has a volume of verse ready for publication.</p>
<h4><i>II. Mrs. J. W. Hammond</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 198px;"><a name="ill_021" id="ill_021"></a>
<a href="images/i_142_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_142_sml.jpg" width="198" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mrs. J. W. Hammond</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Self-taught, and disclaiming knowledge of books, Mrs. Hammond of Omaha,
Nebraska, contributes to <i>The Monitor</i> of that city verses of musical
cadences and gentle beauty. Her response to the scenes and objects of
nature is that of a poetic mind. The spirit of joy sings through her
verses. As a representative poem the following may be accepted:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">THE OPTIMIST</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Who would have the sky any color but blue,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or the grass any color but green?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or the flowers that bloom the summer through<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of other color or sheen?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How the sunshine gladdens the human heart—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How the sound of the falling rain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Will cause the tender tears to start,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And free the soul from pain.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, this old world is a great old place!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And I love each season’s change,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The river, the brook of purling grace,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The valley, the mountain range.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And when I am called to quit this life,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My feet will not spurn the sod,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though I leave this world with its beauty rife,—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">There’s a glorious one with God!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>One other poem of Mrs. Hammond’s I will give that is beautiful alike in
feeling and treatment.</p>
<p class="cpom">TO MY NEIGHBOR BOY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">When sweet Aurora lifts her veil,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And floods the world with rosy light,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When morning stars, grown dim and pale,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Proclaim the passing of the night—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With waking bird and opening flower,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I greet with joy the new-born day—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For oft at this exquisite hour,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I hear a strange new roundelay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">No syncopating “jazz” or “blues,”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Insults my eager listening ear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But softly as the falling dews,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The strains come stealing sweet and clear.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With lilting grace they rise above<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The early traffic’s sordid din—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My neighbor boy is making love<br /></span>
<span class="i4">To his beloved violin.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sometimes I catch a quivering note—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An over-burdened wordless cry.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I say: “Those are the lines he wrote<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The day he told some one goodbye.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But when I hear a joyous strain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of melody serene and clear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I smile and say: “All’s well again—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The little maiden must be near!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But best of all I love the mood<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That prompts a soft sweet minor key.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My longing soul forgets to brood,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While drinking in the melody.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My restless spirit will not rove,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor lose its faith in God and men,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The while my neighbor boy makes love<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To his beloved violin.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>III. Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson</i></h4>
<p>A sonnet has already been given from Mrs. Dunbar-Nelson to which I think
Mrs. Browning or Christina Rossetti might have appended her signature
without detriment to her fame. It is one of a series entitled <i>A Dream
Sequence</i>, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> rest of the sequence being as yet unpublished. Instead
of pillaging this sequence, marring the effect of the individual member
so dislocated, I will take from her compilation, <i>The Dunbar
Speaker</i>,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> so named for her first husband, the poet, two of her
original poems. The first is a war poem, doubtless, but the occasion is
immaterial. The spirit of rebellion against confinement to the petty
thing while the something big calls afar might be evoked into play by
any of a hundred situations.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_022" id="ill_022"></a>
<a href="images/i_145_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_145_sml.jpg" width="196" height="253" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Alice Dunbar-Nelson</span></p></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">I SIT AND SEW</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I sit and sew—a useless task it seems,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But—I must sit and sew.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Once men. My soul in pity flings<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Appealing cries, yearning only to go<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But—I must sit and sew.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The little useless seam, the idle patch;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That beckons me—this pretty futile seam,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The second poem I shall give is also not unrelated to the recent World
War, and to all war: the lights alluded to, shining across and down the
Delaware for miles, are the lights of the DuPont powder mills. It is a
poem of fine symmetry, highly poetic diction, and great allusive
meaning—a poem that will bear and repay many readings, never growing
less beautiful.</p>
<p class="cpom">THE LIGHTS AT CARNEY’S POINT</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O white little lights at Carney’s Point,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You shine so clear o’er the Delaware;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the moon rides high in the silver sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then you gleam, white gems on the Delaware.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Diamond circlet on a full white throat,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You laugh your rays on a questing boat;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is it peace you dream in your flashing gleam,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O’er the quiet flow of the Delaware?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And the lights grew dim at the water’s brim,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For the smoke of the mills shredded slow between;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the smoke was red, as is new bloodshed,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the lights went lurid ’neath the livid screen.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O red little lights at Carney’s Point,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You glower so grim o’er the Delaware;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the moon hides low sombrous clouds below,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Then you glow like coals o’er the Delaware.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blood red rubies on a throat of fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You flash through the dusk of a funeral pyre;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are there hearth fires red whom you fear and dread<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O’er the turgid flow of the Delaware?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And the lights gleamed gold o’er the river cold,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For the murk of the furnace shed a copper veil;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the veil was grim at the great cloud’s brim,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the lights went molten, now hot, now pale.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O gold little lights at Carney’s Point,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You gleam so proud o’er the Delaware;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the moon grows wan in the eastering dawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Then you sparkle gold points o’er the Delaware.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aureate filigree on a Crœsus’ brow,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You hasten the dawn on a gray ship’s prow.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Light you streams of gold in the grim ship’s hold<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O’er the sullen flow of the Delaware?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And the lights went gray in the ash of day,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For a quiet Aurora brought a halcyon balm;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the sun laughed high in the infinite sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And the lights were forgot in the sweet, sane calm.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Mrs. Dunbar-Nelson has not applied herself to poetry as she has to prose
fiction. As a short-story writer she has special distinction.</p>
<h4><i>IV. Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_023" id="ill_023"></a>
<a href="images/i_148_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_148_sml.jpg" width="196" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G. D. Johnson</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Exquisite artistry in verse, with infallible poetic content, is
exhibited in Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson’s <i>The Heart of a Woman</i>. It
is also the saddest book produced by her race. Perfect lyrical notes,
the most poignant pathos—that is an exact description of it. Triple
bronze cannot armor any breast successfully against its appeal. For the
heart that speaks here is a heart that has known its garden of sorrows,
its Gethsemane. This is the harvest of her sorrows—dreams and songs, of
which she comments:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The dreams of the dreamer<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Are life-drops that pass<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The break in the heart<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To the Soul’s hour-glass.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The songs of the singer<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Are tones that repeat<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The cry of the heart<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till it ceases to beat.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Neither in memory nor in dreams is there a refuge for the life-wounded
heart of this woman:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What need have I for memory,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When not a single flower<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Has bloomed within life’s desert<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For me, one little hour?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What need have I for memory,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Whose burning eyes have met<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The corse of unborn happiness<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Winding the trail regret?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>And thus of her dreams, on the last page of her book:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I am folding up my little dreams<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Within my heart to-night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And praying I may soon forget<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The torture of their sight.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>What are the experiences and what the conditions of life—what must they
have been—which have had the tragic power to make a soul “try to forget
it has dreamed of stars?” The world little kens what hearts in it are
breaking, and why. To the grave the secret goes with the many, one in a
million betrays it in a cry. But not here is it betrayed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">SMOTHERED FIRES</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A woman with a burning flame<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Deep covered through the years<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With ashes—ah! she hid it deep,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And smothered it with tears.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sometimes a baleful light would rise<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From out the dusky bed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then the woman hushed it quick<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To slumber on, as dead.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">At last the weary war was done,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The tapers were alight,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And with a sigh of victory<br /></span>
<span class="i2">She breathed a soft—goodnight!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Not without hurt to itself may the oyster produce its pearl. These poems
from the heart of a woman remind me of nothing so much as a string of
pearls. Each one is witness to a bruise or gash to the spirit. The lyric
cry has not been more piercing in anything written on American soil,
piercing all the more for the perfect restraint, the sure artistry. It
was a heart surcharged with sorrow in which these pearls of poesy took
shape from secret wounds. The heart of one woman speaks in them for
thousands in America, else inarticulate. “We weep,” says the African
proverb, “we weep in our hearts like the tortoise.” Without one word or
hint of race in all the book there is yet between its covers the
unwritten,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> unwritable tragedy of that borderland race which knows not
where it belongs in the world, a truly homeless race in soul. A sadder
book could hardly be.</p>
<p>Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson was born in Atlanta, Georgia, and received
her academic education in Atlanta University and a musical education at
Oberlin. She now lives in Washington, D. C. She is at the beginning of
her career as an author. Two other books of lyrics, under the titles of
<i>An Autumn Love Cycle</i>, and <i>Bronze</i>,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> she has in preparation for the
press at this time. Some of their contents have already appeared in
magazines. These two new volumes will make an advance in power and in
richness of content beyond <i>The Heart of a Woman</i>. They will also
provide the key to the tragic mystery concealed in that book. A poem
that is to appear in <i>Bronze</i> will be given in a later chapter. I will
here give another. Both have already been published in magazines.</p>
<p class="cpom">THE OCTOROON</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">One drop of midnight in the dawn of life’s pulsating stream<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Marks her an alien from her kind, a shade amid its gleam.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Forevermore her step she bends, insular, strange, apart—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And none can read the riddle of her strangely warring heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The stormy current of her blood beats like a mighty sea<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Against the man-wrought iron bars of her captivity.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For refuge, succor, peace, and rest, she seeks that humble fold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose every breath is kindliness, whose hearts are purest gold.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>V. Miss Angelina W. Grimké</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_024" id="ill_024"></a>
<a href="images/i_152_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_152_sml.jpg" width="197" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Miss Angelina Grimké</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Not less distinctive in quality than Mrs. Johnson’s, and not less
beautiful in artistry, are the brief lyrics of Miss Angelina W. Grimké,
also of the city of Washington. If hers should be called imagist poetry
or no I cannot say, but I am certain that more vivid imaging of objects
has not been done in verse by any contemporary. This, too, in stanzas
that suggest in their perfection of form the work of the old lapidaries.
Nor is there but a surface or formal beauty. There is passion, there is
beauty of idea, the soul of lyric poetry is there as well as the form. I
am weighing well my words in giving this praise, and I know that not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span>
one in the thousand of those who write good verse would deserve them.
But I ask the sceptical individual to re-read them after he has perused
the poems themselves.</p>
<p>I will present several without interrupting comment:</p>
<p class="cpom">DAWN</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Grey trees, grey skies, and not a star;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Grey mist, grey hush;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then, frail, exquisite, afar,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A hermit-thrush.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">A WINTER TWILIGHT</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A silence slipping around like death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One path that knows where the corn flowers were;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And over it softly leaning down,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE PUPPET-PLAYER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sometimes it seems as though some puppet-player.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Twitching the strings with slow, sardonic grin.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE WANT OF YOU</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A hint of gold where the moon will be;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through the flocking clouds just a star or two;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And oh! the crying want of you.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">EL BESO</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Twilight—and you,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Quiet—the stars;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Snare of the shine of your teeth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your provocative laughter,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The gloom of your hair;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lure of you, eye and lip;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yearning, yearning,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Languor, surrender;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your mouth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And madness, madness,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tremulous, breathless, flaming,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The space of a sigh;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then awakening—remembrance,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pain, regret—your sobbing;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And again quiet—the stars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Twilight—and you.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">AT THE SPRING DAWN</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I watched the dawn come,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Watched the spring dawn come.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the red sun shouldered his way up<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through the grey, through the blue,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through the lilac mists.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The quiet of it! The goodness of it!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i2">And one bird awoke, sang, whirred<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A blur of moving black against the sun,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Sang again—afar off.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stretched to my finger tips,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And I laughed.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">At the dawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">At the spring dawn.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">TO KEEP THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE FORTEN GRIMKÉ</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Still are there wonders of the dark and day;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The muted shrilling of shy things at night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So small beneath the stars and moon;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the light<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lies softly on the leaves at noon.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">These are, and these will be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until Eternity;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But she who loved them well has gone away.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Each dawn, while yet the east is veiled gray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The birds about her window wake and sing;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And far away each day some lark<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know is singing where the grasses swing;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some robin calls and calls at dark.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">These are, and these will be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until Eternity;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But she who loved them well has gone away.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But not for eyes that loved them best;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Only her little pansies are all gone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Some lying softly on her breast.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And flowers will bud and be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until Eternity;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But she who loved them well has gone away.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Where has she gone? And who is there to say?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But this we know: her gentle spirit moves<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And is where beauty never wanes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Perchance by other streams, ’mid other groves;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And to us here, ah! she remains<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A lovely memory<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until Eternity.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She came, she loved, and then she went away.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The subject of these beautiful memorial verses was not simply in feeling
but in expression also a poet herself. From “A June Song” written by her
I will take a stanza in evidence:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">How shall we crown her bright young head?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Crown it with roses, rare and red;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Crown it with roses, creamy white,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the lotus bloom that sweetens the night.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Crown it with roses as pink as shell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In which the voices of ocean dwell.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And a fairer queen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall ne’er be seen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Than our lovely, laughing June.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>VI. Mrs. Anne Spencer</i></h4>
<p>Who can fathom to its depths the heart of womanhood? Under the
conditions of American<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span></p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_025" id="ill_025"></a>
<a href="images/i_157_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_157_sml.jpg" width="197" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Anne Spencer</span></p></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">life the Negro woman’s heart offers difficulties peculiar to itself.
These various writers—talented, cultured, with the keen sensibilities
of a specially sensitive people—have given us glimpses into some of the
depths, not all. A poet of the other sex, Mr. McKay, with that
divination which belongs to the poet, intimates in <i>The Harlem Dancer</i>,
quoted on page 128, that the index of the heart is not always in the
occupation or the face:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But, looking at her falsely-smiling face,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I knew her self was not in that strange place.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>No, her self was free and too noble to be smirched by the “passionate
gaze of wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys.” It is a paradox that has puzzled
a recent white novelist. Cissie Dildine, in Mr. Stribling’s
<i>Birthright</i>, pilferer though she is, and sacrificer of her maidenhood,
yet does not lose caste among her people. They speak affectionately of
her and minister lovingly to her in jail, with no hint of re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span>proach. It
is not other standards, as the novelist intimates, that we must apply,
but only right standards, in view of circumstances.</p>
<p>I am able to give here a poem that may start in the reader’s mind a
fruitful train of reflections, tending toward profound ethical truth.
The writer, Mrs. Anne Spencer of Lynchburg, Virginia, in all of her work
that I have seen, has marked originality. Her style is independent,
unconventional, and highly compressed. The poem which follows will
fairly represent her work and at the same time open another avenue to
the secret chambers of the Negro woman’s heart:</p>
<p class="cpom">AT THE CARNIVAL</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I desire a name for you,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nice, as a right glove fits;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For you—who amid the malodorous<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mechanics of this unlovely thing,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are darling of spirit and form.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know you—a glance, and what you are<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sits-by-the-fire in my heart.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My Limousine-Lady knows you, or<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The bull-necked man knows you—this first time<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And thinks not of his avocation.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I came incuriously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span>—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Set on no diversion save that my mind<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the presence of a blind crowd.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The color of life was gray.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Everywhere the setting seemed right<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For my mood!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Here the sausage and garlic booth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sent unholy incense skyward;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There a quivering female-thing<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gestured assignations, and lied<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To call it dancing;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There, too, were games of chance<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With chances for none;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The gaze you send the crowd,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As though you know the dearth of beauty<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In its sordid life.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We need you—my Limousine-Lady,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The bull-necked man, and I.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seeing you here brave and water-clean,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am swift to feel that what makes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The plodder glad is good; and<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whatever is good is God.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The wonder is that you are here;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I have seen the queer in queer places,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But never before a heaven-fed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Naiad of the Carnival-Tank!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Little Diver, Destiny for you,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like as for me, is shod in silence;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Years may seep into your soul<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The bacilli of the usual and the expedient;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>VII. Miss Jessie Fauset</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 193px;"><a name="ill_026" id="ill_026"></a>
<a href="images/i_160_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_160_sml.jpg" width="193" height="260" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Miss Jessie Redmon Fauset</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>By way of indicating the idealistic aspirations of the colored people I
gave at the end of Chapter I. J. Mord Allen’s poem <i>The Psalm of the
Uplift</i>. For the same purpose I will give here, at the end of this
chapter, a poem of the very present day from one of the most
accomplished young women of the Negro race. Besides its intrinsic merit
as a poem it has the further recommendation for a place in this chapter
that it celebrates a woman of the black race who was the very embodiment
of its noblest qualities—illiterate slave though she was. It is a
splendid testimonial to her people of this later day that Negro
literature is filled with tributes to Sojourner Truth. She was indeed a
wonderful woman, altogether worthy to be ranked with the noble heroines
of biblical story. From a Negro historian I take the following
restrained account of her:<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span></p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>Two Negroes, because of their unusual gifts, stood out with great
prominence in the agitation. These were Sojourner Truth and
Frederick Douglass. Sojourner Truth was born of slave parents about
1798 in Ulster County, New York. She remembered vividly in later
years the cold, wet cellar-room in which slept the slaves of the
family to which she belonged, and where she was taught by her
mother to repeat the Lord’s Prayer and to trust in God at all
times. When in the course of gradual emancipation in New York she
became legally free in 1827, her master refused to comply with the
law. She left, but was pursued and found. Rather than have her go
back, a friend paid for her services for the rest of the year. Then
came an evening when, searching for one of her children that had
been stolen and sold, she found herself a homeless wanderer. A
Quaker family gave her lodging for the night. Subsequently she went
to New York City, joined a Methodist Church, and worked hard to
improve her condition. Later, having decided to leave New York for
a lecturing tour through the East, she made a small bundle of her
belongings and informed a friend that her name was no longer
Isabella but Sojourner. She went on her way, lecturing to people
where she found them assembled and being entertained in many
aristocratic homes. She was entirely untaught in the schools, but
she was witty, original, and always suggestive. By her tact and her
gift of song she kept down ridicule, and by her fervor and faith
she won many friends for the anti-slavery cause. As to her name she
said: “And the Lord gave me Sojourner because I was to travel up
an’ down the land showin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span>’ the people their sins an’ bein’ a sign
unto them. Afterwards I told the Lord I wanted another name, ’cause
everybody else had two names, an’ the Lord gave me Truth, because I
was to declare the truth to the people.”</p></div>
<p>The poem follows, with the author’s note on the saying of Sojourner
Truth which occasioned it:</p>
<p class="cpom">ORIFLAMME</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p>I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy
would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and
groan, and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’ And she
would say, ‘I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not
know where I be and I don’t know where they be. I look up at the
stars and they look up at the stars!’—Sojourner Truth.</p></div>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I think I see her sitting bowed and black,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Still looking at the stars.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Still visioning the stars!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>“Still visioning the stars”—that is the idealism of the Negro. The soul
of Sojourner Truth goes marching on, star-led.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><br />
<small>AD ASTRA PER ASPERA</small></h2>
<h3><span class="smcap">I. per aspera</span></h3>
<h4><i>I. Edward Smythe Jones</i></h4>
<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_027" id="ill_027"></a>
<a href="images/i_163_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_163_sml.jpg" width="194" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Edward Smythe Jones</span></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">It</span> has not frequently happened in these times that a poet has dated a
poem from a prison cell, or dedicated a book of poems to the judge of a
police court. Mr. Edward Smythe Jones, however, has done this, and there
is an interesting story by way of explanation. From the poem alluded to
it seems that Mr. Jones in his over-mastering desire to drink at the
Harvard fountain of learning tramped out of the Southland up to
Cambridge. Arriving travel-worn, friendless, moneyless, hungry, he was
preparing to bivouac on the Harvard campus his first night in the
University city,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> when, being misunderstood, and not believed, he was
apprehended as a vagabond and thrown into jail. A poem, however, the
poem which tells this story, delivered him. The judge was convinced by
it, kindly entreated the prisoner, and set him free to return to the
academic shades. <i>Ad astra per aspera.</i></p>
<p>It was in “Cell No. 40, East Cambridge Jail, Cambridge, Massachusetts,
July 26, 1910,” that the unlucky bard committed to verse this story,
transmuting harsh experience to the joy of artistic production. The last
half of his version runs as follows:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As soon as locked within the jail,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Deep in a ghastly cell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Methought I heard the bitter wail<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of all the fiends of hell!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“O God, to Thee I humbly pray<br /></span>
<span class="i2">No treacherous prison snare<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall close my soul within for aye<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From dear old Harvard Square.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Just then I saw an holy Sprite<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shed all her radiant beams,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And round her shone the source of light<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of all the poets’ dreams!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I plied my pen in sober use,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And spent each moment spare<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In sweet communion with the Muse<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I met in Harvard Square!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I cried: “Fair Goddess, hear my tale<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of sorrow, grief and pain.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That made her face an ashen pale,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But soon it glowed again!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“They placed me here; and this my crime,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Writ on their pages fair;—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">‘He left his sunny native clime,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And came to Harvard Square!’<span class="lftspc">”</span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Weep not, my son, thy way is hard,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thy weary journey long—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But thus I choose my favorite bard<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To sing my sweetest song.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’ll strike the key-note of my art<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And guide with tend’rest care,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And breathe a song into thy heart<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To honor Harvard Square.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I called old Homer long ago,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And made him beg his bread<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through seven cities, ye all know,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">His body fought for, dead.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Spurn not oppression’s blighting sting,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Nor scorn thy lowly fare;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By them I’ll teach thy soul to sing<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The songs of Harvard Square.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I placed great Dante in exile,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And Byron had his turns;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then Keats and Shelley smote the while,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And my immortal Burns!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But thee I’ll build a sacred shrine,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A store of all my ware;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By them I’ll teach thy soul to sing<br /></span>
<span class="i2">‘A place in Harvard Square.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span>’<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“To some a store of mystic lore,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To some to shine a star:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The first I gave to Allan Poe,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The last to Paul Dunbar.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Since thou hast waited patient, long,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Now by my throne I swear<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To give to thee my sweetest song<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To sing in Harvard Square.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And when she gave her parting kiss<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And bade a long farewell,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I sat serene in perfect bliss<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As she forsook my cell.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon the altar-fire she poured<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Some incense very rare;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Its fragrance sweet my soul assured<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’d enter Harvard Square.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Reclining on my couch, I slept<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A sleep sweet and profound;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O’er me the blessed angels kept<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Their vigil close around.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With dawning’s smile, my fondest hope<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shone radiant and fair:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Justice cut each chain and rope<br /></span>
<span class="i2">’Tween me and Harvard Square!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Of all the Negro poets whose writings I have perused, Edward Smythe
Jones is the most difficult to estimate with certainty. There is an
eloquence and luxuriance of language and imagery in his stanzas which
perplexes the critic and yet persuades him to repeated readings. The
result,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> however, fails to become clear. If, with his copiousness, the
reserve of disciplined art ever becomes his, and his critical faculty is
trained to match his creative, then poetry of noteworthy merit may be
expected from him. His deeply religious bent, his aspiration after the
best things of the mind, his ambition to treat lofty themes, augur well
for him.</p>
<p>Mr. Jones’s two best poems, <i>The Sylvan Cabin: A Centenary Ode on the
Birth of Abraham Lincoln</i> and <i>An Ode to Ethiopia: to the Aspiring Negro
Youth</i>, are too long for insertion here. I will give a shorter patriotic
ode, not included in his book, but written, I believe, during the World
War:</p>
<p class="cpom">FLAG OF THE FREE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Flag of the free, our sable sires<br /></span>
<span class="i2">First bore thee long ago<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Into hot battles’ hell-lit fires,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Against the fiercest foe.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And when he shook his shaggy mien,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And made the death-knell ring,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brave Attucks fell upon the Green,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thy stripes first crimsoning.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thy might and majesty we hurl,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Against the bolts of Mars;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And from thy ample folds unfurl<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thy field of flaming stars!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fond hope to nations in distress,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thy starry gleam shall give;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The stricken in the wilderness<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shall look to thee and live.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What matter if where Boreas roars,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or where sweet Zephyr smiles?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What matter if where eagle soars,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or in the sunlit isles?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy flowing crimson stripes shall wave<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Above the bluish brine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Emblazoned ensign of the brave,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And Liberty enshrine!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Flag of the Free, still float on high<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Through every age to come;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bright beacon of the azure sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">True light of Freedom’s dome.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till nations all shall cease to grope<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In vain for liberty,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, shine, last lingering star of hope<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of all humanity!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Is there, in all our American poetry, a more eloquent apostrophe to our
flag than that, not excepting even Joseph Rodman Drake’s? Perhaps the
allusion to Attucks in the first stanza will require a note for the
white reader. Every colored school-child, however, knows that Crispus
Attucks was a brave and stalwart Negro, who, in the van of the patriots
of Boston that resisted the British soldiers in the so-called “Boston
Massacre,” March 5, 1770, fell with two British bullets in his breast,
among the first martyrs for independence:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thus Attucks brave, without a moment’s pause,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Full bared his breast in Freedom’s holy cause,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">First fell and tore the code of Tyranny’s cruel laws—<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">so writes of him this same poet in his <i>Ode to Ethiopia</i>.</p>
<h4><i>II. Raymond Garfield Dandridge</i></h4>
<p>Twelve years ago a young house-decorator in Cincinnati was stricken down
with partial paralysis, since which time he has been bedfast and all but
helpless. On this bed of distress he learned what resources were within
himself, powers that in health he knew not of. The fountain of poetry
sprang up in what threatened to be a desert life.—The artist-nature
within manifested itself in a new realm, the realm of words set to
tuneful measures. This artisan, turned by affliction into a poet, is
Raymond Garfield Dandridge. Again, <i>ad astra per aspera</i>.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 190px;"><a name="ill_028" id="ill_028"></a>
<a href="images/i_169_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_169_sml.jpg" width="190" height="266" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Raymond G. Dandridge</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>It is not great poetry that Dandridge is giving to the world, but it is
poetry. His musings shaped into rhyme reach the heart. They have
sweetness and light—“the two most precious things in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> world.” All
the art he has acquired, untaught, from his reading and unaided
thinking. Naturally one would not expect that art to be flawless. His
initial poem, while not literally a self-description, will serve to
introduce this adopted son of the lyric Muse:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE POET</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The poet sits and dreams and dreams;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He scans his verse; he probes his themes.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then turns to stretch or stir about,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lest, like his thoughts, his strength give out.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then off to bed, for he must rise<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And cord some wood, or tamp some ties,<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Or break a field of fertile soil,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or do some other manual toil.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He dare not live by wage of pen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Most poorly paid of poor paid men,<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">With shoes o’er-run, and threadbare clothes,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And editors among the foes<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Who mock his song, deny him bread,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then sing his praise when he is dead.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>A secret consolation is intimated in the following lines:</p>
<p class="cpom">TO—</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Though many are the dreams I dream,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They’re born within a single theme.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The same kind voice I ever hear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Instilling faith, upbraiding fear:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The same consoling smile appears<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To snuff my sighs and dry my tears:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And fondest heart, of purest gold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is hers whose name I here withhold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And pray naught ever change my theme,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or wake me from my dream.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Reflections upon the deeper meanings of life and death are inevitable to
one situated as Mr. Dandridge is, provided he is given to serious
reflections at all. And the thoughts of such a person are apt to have
value for their sincerity. Two brief meditations in rhyme, as we may
call them, will represent his thinking on such themes:</p>
<p class="cpom">TIME TO DIE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Black Brother, think you life so sweet<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That you would live at any price?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Does mere existence balance with<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The weight of your great sacrifice?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or, can it be you fear the grave<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Enough to live and die a slave?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O, Brother! be it better said,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When you are gone and tears are shed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That your death was the stepping stone<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your children’s children cross’d upon.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Men have died that men might live:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Look every foeman in the eye!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If necessary, your life give<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For something, ere in vain you die.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">ETERNITY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Vast realm beyond the gate of death,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where craven scavengers and kings,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Alike, with passing final breath,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Relinquish claim to earthly things:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Endless, unexplored expanse,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where souls, bereft of mortal clay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wander at will, in peace, perchance—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Perchance in strife, who dare would say?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Even in the confinement to which his affliction has subjected him, Mr.
Dandridge has felt the strong pulse-throbs of his people’s new kindled
aspirations. The strength of the soul may indeed increase with the
weakness of the body. These lines are surely not wanting in the passion
without which “facts” are cold:</p>
<p class="cpom">FACTS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Triumphant Sable Heroes homeward turning,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Arrayed in medals bright, and half-healed scars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have service, life, and limb been given earning<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Trophies issued at the hand of Mars?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">If your sole gain has been these “marks of battle,”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If valiant deeds insure no greater claim,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If you are still to be the herder’s cattle,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then ill spilt blood fell short of Freedom’s aim.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Democracy means more than empty letters,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And Liberty far more than partly free;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet, both are void as long as men in fetters<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are at eclipse with Opportunity.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>III. George Marion McClellan</i></h4>
<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_029" id="ill_029"></a>
<a href="images/i_173_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_173_sml.jpg" width="197" height="268" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">George Marion McClellan</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Aptly has Mr. McClellan entitled his book of poems <i>The Path of Dreams</i>.
A dreamer is he and the home of his spirit is dreamland:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sweet-scented winds move inward from the shore,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Blythe is the air of June with silken gleams,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My roving fancy treads at will once more<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The golden path of dreams.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">And that path leads the poet ever back to the golden days of his youth,
when Southern suns and Southern moons steeped his very being in dreams
and Southern birds gave him their melodies and Southern mountains lifted
his soul heavenward. A wanderer upon the earth he appears to have been,
and as all wanderers’ hearts turn back to some loved region or spot so
his to Dixie. Seldom has the longing for distant, remembered scenes, for
spring’s returning and for summer’s glow, been more sweetly expressed in
rhyme than in the various poems of <i>The Path of Dreams</i>. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> yet,
sweeter songs than those are locked up in his breast, not to be sung:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The summer sweetness fills my heart with songs<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I cannot sing, with loves I cannot speak.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">When harsh necessity imprisons him in the city he sighs:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I think the sight of fields and shady lanes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Would ease my heart of pains.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">But what contradictions poets have ever found in their experiences! The
ministrants of joy but wring the cry of pain from the yearning heart.
Lovely May is harder to endure, in exile, than gloomy December. The
city’s discordant cries may be endured, bringing neither grief nor joy,
while a bird’s carol may be exquisite torture:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The woodlark’s tender warbling lay,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Which flows with melting art,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is but a trembling song of love<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That serves to break my heart.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">Musing on whatever scene, the poet’s thoughts are tinged with that
sadness which to every sensitive nature has a sweetness in it:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The sun went down in beauty,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">While I stood musing alone,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stood watching the rushing river<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And heard its restless moan;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Longings, vague, intenable,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So far from speech apart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like the endless rush of the river,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Went surging through my heart.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>With no less sadness or beauty, and with that philosophy towards which
poetry ever has a bias, our poet of dreams thus reflects, on watching
the ephemera that dart with glimmering wings in keen delight where the
breezes fling the sweets of May:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Creatures of gauze and velvet wings,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With a day of gleams and flowers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who knows—in the light of eternal things—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your life is less than ours?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Weary at last, it is ours, like you,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When our brief day is done,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Folding our hands, to say adieu,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And pass with the setting sun.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>One must say of George Marion McClellan: “Here is a finely touched
spirit that responds deeply to the mystery and charm of mountains and
starry skies, and that charm and mystery he is capable of expressing in
stanzas of lyric beauty.” Every page of his book will confirm for the
reader the estimate he may have formed from the quotations already
given. Without rifling it of its choicest treasures I will put before
the reader a few entire poems which I am sure will give increased
delight on repeated readings:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">TO HOLLYHOCKS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Gay hollyhocks with flaming bells<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And waving plumes, as gently swells<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The breeze upon the Summer air,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You bind me still with magic spells<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When to the wind, in grave farewells,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You bow in all your graces fair.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You bring me back the childhood view,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where arching skies and deepest blue<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stretch on in endless lengths above;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To see you so awakes anew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Long past emotions, from which grew<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My wild and first heart-throbs of love.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There is in all your brilliant dyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your gorgeousness and azure skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A joy like soothing summer rain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet in the scene there vaguely lies<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A something half akin to sighs,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Along the borderland of pain.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE HILLS OF SEWANEE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sewanee Hills of dear delight,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Prompting my dreams that used to be,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know you are waiting me still to-night<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By the Unika Range of Tennessee.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The blinking stars in endless space,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The broad moonlight and silvery gleams,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To-night caress your wind-swept face,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And fold you in a thousand dreams.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Your far outlines, less seen than felt,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Which wind with hill propensities,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In moonlight dreams I see you melt<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Away in vague immensities.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And, far away, I still can feel<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your mystery that ever speaks<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of vanished things, as shadows steal<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Across your breast and rugged peaks.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O dear blue hills, that lie apart,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And wait so patiently down there,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your peace takes hold upon my heart<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And makes its burden less to bear.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE FEET OF JUDAS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dark and evil passions of his soul,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His secret plot, and sordidness complete,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His bargain with the priest, and more than this,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And so ineffable his love ’twas meet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That pity fill his great forgiving heart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And tenderly he wash the traitor’s feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And thus a girded servant, self-abased,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was ever too great to wholly be effaced,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And, though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And so if we have ever felt the wrong<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What e’er the soul has felt or suffered long,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">IN MEMORY OF KATIE REYNOLDS, DYING</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i8">O Death!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If thou hast aught of tenderness,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Be kindly in thy touch<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of her whose fragile slenderness<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Was overburdened much<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With life. And let her seem to go to sleep,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As often does a tired child, when it has grown<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Too tired to longer weep.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i6">A rose but half in bloom—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She is too young and beautiful to die,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But yet, if she must go,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Let her go out as goes a sigh<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From tired life and woe.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And let her keep, in death’s brief space<br /></span>
<span class="i2">This side the grave, the dusky beauty still<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Belonging to her face.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i8">She must have been<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of those upon the trembling lyre<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of whom the poets sung:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Whom the gods love” and desire<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Fade and “die young.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her life so loved on earth was brief,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But yet withal so beautiful there is no cause,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But in our loss, for grief.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>This poet, formerly a school principal in Louisville, Kentucky, is now
in Los Angeles, California, whither he took his tubercular son—in
vain—endeavoring to establish there a sanitarium for persons of his
race afflicted as his son was. For the third time: <i>ad astra per
aspera</i>.</p>
<h4><i>IV. Charles P. Wilson</i></h4>
<p>The following verses were written by a man in the Missouri State
Penitentiary. He might prefer that his name be withheld. He will shortly
go forth a free man and a better one—so resolved to be—with verses
enough composed during his period of incarceration to make a small book:</p>
<p class="cpom">SOMEBODY’S CHILD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Don’t be too quick to condemn me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Because I have made a bad start;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Remember you see but the surface,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And know not what’s in the heart.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I may bear the marks of a sinful life,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And I may have been a bit wild;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But back of all remains this fact,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That I am somebody’s child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My cheeks by tears may be polished,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And my heart is no stranger to pain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know what it is to be friendless,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And to learn each affliction means gain.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I may be out in life’s storm,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And misfortune around me has piled;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But kindly remember this little fact,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That I am somebody’s child.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Probably to-night you’ll be happy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In some joys or pleasures you’ll share:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And that very same moment may find me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tearfully pleading in prayer.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So don’t be too harsh when you judge me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For your judgment with God will be filed;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You would know—could you see past the surface—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That I am somebody’s child.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>And so a fourth time the motto—or is it a proverb?—<i>ad astra per
aspera.</i></p>
<h4><i>V. Leon R. Harris</i></h4>
<p>Now editor of the Richmond (Indiana) <i>Blade</i>, contributor of
short-stories to <i>The Century Magazine</i>, an honored citizen and the head
of a respected family, Leon R. Harris was an orphan asylum’s ward. Most
splendidly has he, yet in his early thirties, illustrated the old adage
chosen as a heading for this chapter. His father, a roving musician,
took no interest in the future poet.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> His mother died and left him
almost in the cradle. The orphanage which became his refuge gave him at
least food, shelter, and schooling to the fourth grade. Then he was
given to a Kentucky family to be reared. It was virtual slavery, and the
boy ran away from over-work and beatings. Making his escape to
Cincinnati he was befriended by a traveling salesman and began to find
himself. At eleven years of age, some of his verses were printed in a
Cincinnati daily with “Author Unknown” attached. He now made his way to
Berea and worked his way for two years in that good old college. Then
for three years he worked his way in Tuskegee.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_030" id="ill_030"></a>
<a href="images/i_181_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_181_sml.jpg" width="196" height="264" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Leon R. Harris</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>We next find him in Iowa, married; then in North Carolina, teaching
school; then in Ohio, working in steel mills. This last was his
employment until about two years ago. His short stories and poems are
right out of his life. In the former the peonage system, prevalent in
some sections of the South, and the cruelties of the convict labor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span>
camps are more powerfully portrayed than anywhere else in American
literature. The following poem will represent his writings in verse:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE STEEL MAKERS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Filled with the vigor such jobs demand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strong of muscle and steady of hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before the flaming furnaces stand<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The men who make the steel.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Midst the sudden sounds of falling bars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Midst the clang and bang of cranes and cars,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where the earth beneath them jerks and jars,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They work with willing zeal.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They meet each task as they meet each day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ready to labor and full of play;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their faces are grimy, their hearts are gay,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">There is sense in the songs they sing;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While stooped like priests at the holy mass,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the beaming light of the lurid gas,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their jet black shadows each other pass,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And their hammers loudly ring.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What do they see through the furnace door,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From which the dazzling white lights pour?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, more than the sizzling liquid ore<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They see as they gaze within!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For a band of steel engirdles the earth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Binds men to men from their very birth,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Through all that exists of any worth<br /></span>
<span class="i2">There courses a steely vein.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Steamers that ply o’er the ocean deep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Trains which over the mountains creep,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ships of the air that dart and leap<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where the screaming eagles soar;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The plow which produces the nation’s food,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The bars that keep the bad from the good,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Skyscrapers standing where forests stood,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They see through their furnace door.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They see the secretive submarines,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the noisy, whirring big machines,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Grinding steel into numberless things<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The people know and need;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The scissors that fashion wee babies’ clothes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The beds where the pallid sick repose,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The knife that the nervy surgeon holds<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O’er the wounds that gape and bleed.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yet more they see through the furnace door!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They see the bursting hot shells pour<br /></span>
<span class="i0">On the battle-fields as in days of yore<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The Deluge waters fell.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They see the bloody bayonet blade,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The unsheathed sword and the hand grenade,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The havoc, the wreck and the ruin made<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By the steel they roll and sell.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All this through the furnace door they see<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As they work and laugh—they are full and free;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their steel has purchased their liberty<br /></span>
<span class="i2">From want and the tyrant’s sway.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And just as long as their gas shall burn,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In times of need will the people turn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To them for their product and they shall learn<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Its value endures for aye.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For of what they make we are servants all,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They have bound our lives in an iron thrall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We do their bidding, we heed their call,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As they work with willing zeal.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So tap your heats with a courage bold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You’re worth to your world a thousand fold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">More than the men who mine her gold,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You men who make her steel!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Intrinsic merit is in that poem, apart from the circumstance of its
being written by a workman himself. As an interpretation of the life of
his fellow-workmen—their imaginative, inner life—it is a human
document to be reflected upon. As for the artistic quality of the verses
they place you in imagination amid the sights and sounds described and
they have something in them suggestive of the steel bars the men are
making.</p>
<h4><i>VI. Irvin W. Underhill</i></h4>
<p>In what strange disguises comes ofttimes the call to nobler things! Our
happiness not seldom springs out of seeming misfortune. An illustration
is afforded by Mr. Irvin W. Underhill, of Philadelphia, to whom
blindness brought a more glorious seeing—the seeing of truth, of
greater meaning in life, of greater beauty in the world. Out of this new
vision springs a corresponding message in verse, a message not of
bitterness for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span></p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_031" id="ill_031"></a>
<a href="images/i_185_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_185_sml.jpg" width="197" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Irvin W. Underhill</span></p></div>
</div>
<p class="nind">what might to another man, in the middle years of his life, have seemed
a bitter loss, but of love, and exhortation, and encouragement. Blind,
he lives in the Light. In his little book, entitled <i>Daddy’s Love and
Other Poems</i>, are poems witnessing to a beautiful spirit, poems of
beauty. Because of its sage counsel, however, I pass over some of these
lovelier expressions of sentiment and choose a didactic piece:</p>
<p class="cpom">TO OUR BOYS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I speak to you, my Colored boys,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I bid you to be men,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Don’t put yourselves upon the rack<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Like pigeons in a pen.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Come out and face life’s problem, boys,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With faith and courage too,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And justify that wondrous faith,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Abe Lincoln had in you.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Don’t treat life as a little toy,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A dance or a game of ball;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Those things are all right in their place,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But they are not life’s all.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Life is a problem serious,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Give it the best you have,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Succeed in all you undertake<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And help your brother live.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">If farming seems to be your call,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Then take hold of the plough,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And stick it down into the soil<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till sweat runs down your brow.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then make this resolution firm:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“I’m going to do my best,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And stick this good old plough of mine<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Down deeper than the rest.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">If you’re to be a carpenter<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Then train your hand and eye<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To work out angles, clean and clear<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As any metal die.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then read up on materials,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On beauty and on style,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And prove to all, the house you build<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Is sure to be worth while.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Why sure, a banker, you can be,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A lawyer or a priest;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or you can be a merchant prince,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Their work is not the least.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It makes no difference what you try<br /></span>
<span class="i2">If you would get the best,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You’ll have to stick that plough of yours<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Down deeper than the rest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Don’t fawn up to another man<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And beg him for a job;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Remember that your brain and his<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Were made by the same God.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So use it boys, with all your might,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With faith and courage too,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And justify that wondrous faith<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Abe Lincoln had in you.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h3><span class="smcap">II. ad astra</span></h3>
<h4><i>I. James C. Hughes</i></h4>
<p>There are tragic stories of Negro aspirants for poetic fame that read
like the old stories of English poets in London in the days when the
children of genius starved and died young. As typical of not a few there
is the story of James C. Hughes, of Louisville, Kentucky. The Louisville
<i>Times</i>, March 10, 1905, contained his picture and an article by Joseph
S. Cotter in appreciation of his compositions. “This young man,” writes
Cotter, speaking of a collection of verses and prose sketches which
Hughes then had ready for publication, “this young man has the
essentials of the poet, and to me his work is interesting. It is
serious, and preaches while it sings.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To illustrate the range and quality of Hughes I will quote from this
article two selections, one in prose and one in dialect verse:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">ASPIRATION</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>“True love is the same to-day as when the vestal virgins held their
mystic lights along the path of virtue. Virtue wears the same
vesture that she wore upon the ancient plain that led to fame
immortal. Now the royal gates of honor stand ajar for men of
courage, souls who will not time their spirit-lyre to suit the
common chord. Our nation has known men who held within their palms
our country’s destiny: and, smiling in the armor of a fearless
truth, have thrown away their lives. Awake, O countrymen, awake,
this noble flame. The gods will fan it, and the world shall burn
with honor and pure love.”</p></div>
<p>The bit of dialect verse follows, taken from a poem entitled <i>Apology
for Wayward Jim</i>:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“You has offen tole us, Massy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We’s as free as we kin be;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But we needs some kind o’ check, suh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So’s we’d keep on bein’ free.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Please do’ whip ole Jim dis time, suh;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Marse, I ’no’s you’s good an’ kind;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ain’t no slabery on dis ’arth, suh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like de slabery ob de mind.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“You has offen said obejence<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wuz de key to freedom’s do’—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When we l’arned dis golden lesson<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We wuz free foreber mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span>’.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“But you see dese darkies’ minds, suh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ain’t so flexerbul as dat,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dey can’t zackly understand, suh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What you means by saying dat.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Hain’t but one compound solution<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To dis problem, as I see;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Long’s a human soul’s a slabe, suh,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ain’t no way to make it free.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The young author of these selections, failing to get his book published,
lost his mind and “disappeared from view.” So ends his story.</p>
<h4><i>II. Leland Milton Fisher</i></h4>
<p>Another sad story, more frequently repeated in the lives of the writers
represented in this book, is that of Leland Milton Fisher. First I shall
give one of his poems, as passionately sweet a lyric as can be found in
American literature:</p>
<p class="cpom">FOR YOU, SWEETHEART</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For you, sweetheart, I’d have your skies<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As bright as are your own bright eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all your day-dreams warm and fair<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As is the sunshine in your hair.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Fates to you should be as kind<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As are the thoughts in your pure mind,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And every bird I’d have impart<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Its sweetest song to you, sweetheart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For you, sweetheart, I’d have each dart<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sorrow fashions for your tender heart,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thrust in my own thrice happy breast,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That yours might have unbroken rest.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">If you should fall asleep and lie<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So very still and quiet that I<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Would know your soul had slipped away<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From your divinely molded clay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then, looking in your fair, sweet face<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’d pray to God: “In thy good grace,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O, Father, let me sleep, nor wake<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Again on earth, for her dear sake.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Born in Humbolt, Tennessee, in 1875, Fisher died of tuberculosis, ere
yet thirty years of age, leaving behind an unpublished volume of poems.</p>
<h4><i>III. W. Clarence Jordan</i></h4>
<p>In another chapter I have written of a poet whose birthplace was
Bardstown, Kentucky. W. Clarence Jordan, a Negro schoolmaster of
Bardstown, now dead, wrote the following lines in answer to the
questions, so frequently asked in derision, which stands as its title:</p>
<p class="cpom">WHAT IS THE NEGRO DOING?</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As we pass along life’s highway,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Day by day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thousands daily ask the question,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">“What, I pray,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tell me what’s the Negro doing?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And what course is he pursuing?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What achievements is he strewing<br /></span>
<span class="i4">By the way?”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Many say he’s retrograding<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Very fast;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Others say his glory’s fading,—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Cannot last;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That his prospects now are blighted,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That his chances have been slighted,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This his wrongs cannot be righted.<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Time has passed.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Friends, lift up your eyes; look higher;<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Higher still.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There’s the vanguard of our army<br /></span>
<span class="i4">On the hill.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You’ve been looking at the rear guard.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lift your eyes, look farther forward;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thousands are still pressing starward—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Ever will.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>IV. Roscoe C. Jamison</i></h4>
<p>Roscoe C. Jamison was fortunate in leaving behind him a friend at his
early death, some three years since, who treasured his fugitive verses
sufficiently to gather them together, though but a handful, and send
them out to the world in a little pamphlet. Fortunate also was he in
another friend able to write his elegy:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Too soon is hushed his silver speech,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The music dies upon his lute,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The cadence falls beyond our reach;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Too soon the Poet’s lips are mute.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 198px;"><a name="ill_032" id="ill_032"></a>
<a href="images/i_192_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_192_sml.jpg" width="198" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Roscoe C. Jamison</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>So wrote in this elegy, <i>Lacrimae Aethiopiae</i>, Charles Bertram Johnson,
of this untimely dead singer. Hardly a score of poems are in this
pamphlet, yet enough are here to reveal a poet in the making. Jamison
was a better poet, even in these imperfect pieces, than many a writer of
better verses. Here are the ardent impulses and here are the glowing
ideas from which poetry of the higher order springs. The art, however,
is undisciplined, grammar, metre, and rhymes are sometimes at fault.
However, bold strokes of poetry atone, the effects are the effects of a
real poet. Sometimes one finds in the small collection a poem that is
all but perfect, a production that might have come from a maturer
craftsman. I venture to put him to the test in the following poem:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">CASTLES IN THE AIR</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I build my castles in the air.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How beautiful they seem to me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Standing in all their glory there,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Like stars above the sea!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I watch them with admiring eyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For in them dwells life’s fondest hope:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If they be swept from out the skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In darkness I must grope.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They hold life’s joys, life’s sweetest dreams;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They make the weary years seem bright.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As one guided by bright starbeams<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I struggle through the night.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sometimes from out the skies they fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And my soul shrieks in its pain;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But from the heights I hear Hope’s call,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">“Arise and build again.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What though life be with sorrow filled<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And each day brings its load of care,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’m happy still while I can build<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My castles in the air!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Who but will say, despite the metrical defects, this is a real poem?
Another poem will show his art at a better advantage, while the pathos
is of another kind, very touching pathos it is, too:</p>
<p class="cpom">A SONG</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I loved you, Dear. I did not know how much,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until the silence of the Grave lay cold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Between us, and your hand I could not touch,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And your sweet face, oh! never more behold.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I loved you, Dear. I did not know how true,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until in other eyes I found no light;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know—alas!—my Spirit without you<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Must drift forever in a starless night!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>A different kind of merit, the merit of intense reprobation of cruel
arrogancy in the one race and of treacherous cowardice in the other, is
exemplified in <i>The Edict</i>. Triumphant faith, which is the Negro’s
peculiar heritage, asserts itself in such a way, in the final stanza, as
to lift the poem to the heights of moral feeling.</p>
<p class="cpom">THE EDICT</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning break:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They who at God an angry finger shake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Declaring that because He made them White,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their race should rule the world by sacred right.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They who deny a common Brotherhood—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who cry aloud, and think no Blackman good—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The blood-cursed mob always eager to take<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The rope in hand or light the flaming stake,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Jeering the wretch while he in death pain quakes—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning breaks.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning breaks:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Blackmen, faithless, whose loud laughter wakes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Harsh echoes in the most unbiased places.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They who choose vice, and scorn the gentle graces—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who by their manners breed contemptuous hate,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Suggesting jim-crow laws from state to state<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span>—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They who think on earth they may not find<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An ideal man nor woman of their kind.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But from some other Race that ideal take—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning break!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">We know, O Lord, that there will come a time,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When o’er the World will dawn the Age Sublime,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When Truth shall call to all mankind to stand<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before Thy throne as Brothers, hand in hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Be not displeased with him who this song makes—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning breaks!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>If lyric poetry be self-revealment—and such it is, or it is nothing—we
can learn from the following poem how deep a sorrow at some time in his
life this poet must have experienced:</p>
<p class="cpom">HOPELESSNESS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Had you called from the fire, or from the sea,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From ’mid the roaring flames, or dark’ning wave,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With eagerness I then had come to thee,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To perish with thee if I could not save.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But now helpless I sit and watch you die,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There is no power can save, the doctors say;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I lift my eyes unto the silent sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And wonder why it is that mortals pray.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The title-poem of the booklet, <i>Negro Soldiers</i>, is no doubt Jamison’s
masterpiece. It is worthy of the universal admiration it has won from
those who know it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br /><br />
<small>THE NEW FORMS OF POETRY</small></h2>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> newer methods in poetry—free-verse, rhythmic strophes, polyphonic
prose—have been tried with success by only a few Negroes. Of free-verse
particularly not many noteworthy pieces have come from Negro poets. Well
or ill, each may judge according to his taste. But the objection has
been made that the Negro verse-makers of our time are bound by
tradition, are sophisticated craftsmen. More independence, more
differentness, seems to be demanded. But the conditions of their poetic
activity seem to me in this demand to be lost sight of. They are as much
the heirs of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury as their white contemporaries.
And the Negro is said to be preëminently imitative—that is, responsive
to environing example and influence. One requirement and only one can we
lay upon the Negro singer and that is the same we lay upon the artists
of every race and origin. However, for artistic freedom he has an
authority older than free-verse, and that authority is not outside his
own race. It is found in the old plantation melodies—rich in artistic
potentiality beyond exaggeration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span></p>
<h3>I. FREE-VERSE</h3>
<p>In Negro newspapers and magazines, rarely as yet in books, are to be
found some free-verse productions of which I will give some specimens.
From Will Sexton I shall quote here two brief poems in this form and in
a later chapter another (p. 233). His Whitemanesque manner will be
remarked. These brief pieces will suggest a poet of some force:</p>
<h4><i>Songs of Contemporary Ethiopia</i></h4>
<p class="cpom">THE BOMB THROWER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Down with everything black!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Down with law and order!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Up with the red flag!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Up with the white South!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am America’s evil genius.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE NEW NEGRO</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Out of the mist I see a new America—a land of ideals.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I hear the music of my fathers blended with the “Stars and Stripes Forever.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am the crown of thorns Tyranny must bear a thousand years—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I am the New Negro.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Another vers-librist of individual quality is Andrea Razafkeriefo. He is
a prolific contributor to <i>The Negro World</i>, the newspaper organ of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span>
Universal Negro Improvement Society. This paper regularly gives a
considerable portion of a page of each issue to original verse
contributions. One of Mr. Razafkeriefo’s recent free-verse poems is the
following, in which the style seems to me to be remarkably effective:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO CHURCH</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">That the Negro church possesses<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Extraordinary power,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That it is the greatest medium<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For influencing our people,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That it long has slept and faltered,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Failed to meet its obligations,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are, to honest and true thinkers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Facts which have to be admitted.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">For these reasons there are many<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who would have the church awaken<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And adopt the modern methods<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of all other institutions.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Make us more enlightened Christians,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Teach us courtesy and English,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Racial pride and sanitation,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Science, thrift and Negro history.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Yea, the preacher, like the shepherd,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Should be leader and protector,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And prepare us for the present<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Just as well as for the future;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He should know more than Scriptures,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And should ever be acquainted<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With all vital, daily subjects<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Helpful to his congregation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Give us manly, thinking preachers<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And not shouting money-makers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Men of intellect and vision,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who will really help our people:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Men who make the church a guide-post<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the road of racial progress,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who will strive to fit the Negro<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For this world as well as heaven.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In another chapter I give one of Mr. Razafkeriefo’s poems in regular
stanzas of the traditional type. It is but just to state that his
productions exhibit a great variety of forms. His moods and traits, too,
are various. There is the evidence of ardent feeling and strong
conviction in most he writes.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 198px;"><a name="ill_033" id="ill_033"></a>
<a href="images/i_199_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_199_sml.jpg" width="198" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Langston Hughes</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>This poet gets his strange name (pronounced rä-zäf-ker-rāf) from the
island of Madagascar. His father, now dead, “falling in battle for
Malagasy freedom,” before the poet’s birth, was a nephew of the late
queen of Madagascar, Ranavalona III. His mother, a colored American, was
a daughter of a United States con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span>sul to Madagascar. The poet was born
in the city of Washington in 1895 and now resides in Cleveland, Ohio.</p>
<p>To a young student in Columbia University we are indebted for some of
the most symmetrical and effective free-verse poems that have come to my
attention. His name is Langston Hughes. For information about him I
refer the reader to the first index, at the end of this book. This poem
appeared in <i>The Crisis</i>, January, 1922:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I am a Negro:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Black as the night is black,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Black like the depths of my Africa.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’ve been a slave:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Cæsar told me to keep his door-steps clean,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I brushed the boots of Washington.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’ve been a worker:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Under my hand the pyramids arose.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I made mortar for the Woolworth building.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’ve been a singer:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All the way from Africa to Georgia I carried my sorrow songs.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I made ragtime.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’ve been a victim:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They lynch me now in Texas.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I am a Negro:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Black as the night is black,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Black like the depths of my Africa.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Other specimens of free-verse have been given on pages 67, 102, and 119.
In every instance the poet’s choice of this form seems to me justified
by the particular effectiveness of it.</p>
<h3><span class="smcap">II. Prose Poems</span></h3>
<h4><i>I. W. E. Burghardt DuBois</i></h4>
<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_034" id="ill_034"></a>
<a href="images/i_201_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_201_sml.jpg" width="194" height="304" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">W. E. B. DuBois</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>The name of no Negro author is more widely known than that of W. E.
Burghardt DuBois. Editor, historian, sociologist, essayist, poet—he is
celebrated in the Five Continents and the Seven Seas. It is in his
impassioned prose that DuBois is most a poet. <i>The Souls of Black Folk</i>
throbs constantly on the verge of poetry, while the several chapters of
<i>Darkwater</i> end with a litany, chant, or credo, rhapsodical in character
and in free-verse form.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> In all this work Dr. DuBois is the spokesman of
perhaps as many millions of souls as any man living.</p>
<p>“A Litany at Atlanta,” placed as an epilogue to “The Shadow of the
Years” in <i>Darkwater</i>,<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> should be read as the litany of a race. Modern
literature has not such another cry of agony:</p>
<p class="cpom">A LITANY AT ATLANTA</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our
ears an-hungered in these fearful days—</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery
in Thy Sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy Heaven, O God,
crying:</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>We are not better than our fellows, Lord; we are but weak and human men.
When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed,—curse
them as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done
to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>And yet, whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed
them in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched
their mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime
and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity?</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Thou knowest, good God!</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence and
the innocent be crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty?</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0"><i>Justice, O Judge of men!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the Fathers dead? Have not seers
seen in Heaven’s halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the
black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of
endless dead?</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Awake, Thou that steepest!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, through
blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men,
of women strong and free—far from cozenage, black hypocrisy, and chaste
prostitution of this shameful speck of dust!</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Turn again, O Lord; leave us not to perish in our sin!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0">From lust of body and lust of blood,—<br /></span>
<span class="i4"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">From lust of power and lust of gold,—<br /></span>
<span class="i4"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i><br /></span>
<span class="i0">From the leagued lying of despot and of brute,—<br /></span>
<span class="i4"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin
Murder and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack, and cry of
death and fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars where
church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the
greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears
and held our leaping hands, but they—did they not wag their heads and
leer and cry with bloody jaws: <i>Cease from Crime!</i> The word was mockery,
for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Turn again our captivity, O Lord!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Behold this maimed and broken thing, dear God: it was an humble black
man, who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They
told him: <i>Work and Rise!</i> He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but someone
told how someone said another did—one whom he had never seen nor known.
Yet for that man’s crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife
naked to shame, his children to poverty and evil.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Hear us, O Heavenly Father!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long
shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound
in our hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed
brutes, who do such deeds, high on Thine Altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn
it in hell forever and forever!</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Bewildered we are and passion-tossed, mad with the madness of a mobbed
and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy throne,
we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our
stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of
Thy crucified Christ: What meaneth this? Tell us the plan; give us the
sign.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Keep not Thou silent, O God.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Sit not longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb
suffering. Surely Thou, too, art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless,
heartless thing!</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Ah! Christ of all the Pities!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words! Thou art
still the God of our black fathers and in Thy Soul’s Soul sit some soft
darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night.</p>
<p>But whisper—speak—call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to
our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path!</p>
<p>Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and
without, the liar. Whither? To death?</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Amen! Welcome, dark sleep!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup
pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that
clamoring and clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet
shudder lest we must,—and it is red. Ah! God! It is a red and awful
shape.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Selah!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In yonder East trembles a star.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Thy Will, O Lord, be done!</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Kyrie Eleison!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little
children.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Our voices sink in silence and in night.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Hear us, good Lord.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In night, O God of a godless land!</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Amen!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In silence, O Silent God.</p>
<div class="poetry1">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1">
<span class="i0"><i>Selah!</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>II. Kelly Miller</i></h4>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 211px;"><a name="ill_035" id="ill_035"></a>
<a href="images/i_206_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_206_sml.jpg" width="211" height="261" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Kelly Miller</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Dr. Kelly Miller is professor of sociology in Howard University. He has
been professor of mathematics. He is the author of several prose
works—able expositions of aspects of inter-racial problems. It is
rumored that he is a poet. However that may be, his admirable volume of
essays entitled <i>Out of the House of Bondage</i> concludes with a strophic
chant, highly poetical, and poured forth with the fervor of some old
Celtic bard, triumphant in the vision of a new day dawning:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">I SEE AND AM SATISFIED</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>The vision of a scion of a despised and rejected race, the span of whose
life is measured by the years of its Golden Jubilee, and whose fancy,
like the vine that girdles the tree-trunk, runneth both forward and
back.</p>
</div>
<p class="hang1">I see the African savage as he drinks his palmy wine, and basks in
the sunshine of his native bliss, and is happy.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the man-catcher, impelled by thirst of gold, as he entraps
his simple-souled victim in the snares of bondage and death, by use
of force or guile.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the ocean basin whitened with his bones, and the ocean
current running red with his blood, amidst the hellish horrors of
the middle passage.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see him laboring for two centuries and a half in unrequited toil,
making the hillsides of our southland to glow with the snow-white
fleece of cotton, and the valleys to glisten with the golden
sheaves of grain.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see him silently enduring cruelty and torture indescribable, with
flesh flinching beneath the sizz of angry whip or quivering under
the gnaw of the sharp-toothed bloodhound.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see a chivalric civilization instinct with dignity, comity and
grace rising upon pillars supported by his strength and brawny arm.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the swarthy matron lavishing her soul in altruistic devotion
upon the offspring of her alabaster mistress.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the haughty sons of a haughty race pouring out their lustful
passion upon black womanhood, filling our land with a bronzed and
tawny brood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span></p>
<p class="hang1">I see also the patriarchal solicitude of the kindly-hearted owners
of men, in whose breast not even iniquitous system could sour the
milk of human kindness.</p>
<p class="hang1">I hear the groans, the sorrows, the sighings, the soul striving of
these benighted creatures of God, rising up from the low grounds of
sorrow and reaching the ear of Him Who regardeth man of the
lowliest estate.</p>
<p class="hang1">I strain my ear to supernal sound, and I hear in the secret
chambers of the Almighty the order to the Captain of Host to break
his bond and set him free.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see Abraham Lincoln, himself a man of sorrows and acquainted with
grief, arise to execute the high decree.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see two hundred thousand black boys in blue baring their breasts
to the bayonets of the enemy, that their race might have some
slight part in its own deliverance.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the great Proclamation delivered in the year of my birth of
which I became the first fruit and beneficiary.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the assassin striking down the great Emancipator; and the
house of mirth is transformed into the Golgotha of the nation.</p>
<p class="hang1">I watch the Congress as it adds to the Constitution new words,
which make the document a charter of liberty indeed.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the new-made citizen running to and fro in the first fruit of
his new-found freedom.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see him rioting in the flush of privilege which the nation had
vouchsafed, but destined, alas, not long to last.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see him thrust down from the high seat of political<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> power, by
fraud and force, while the nation looks on in sinister silence and
acquiescent guilt.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see the tide of public feeling run cold and chilly, as the vial
of racial wrath is wreaked upon his bowed and defenceless head.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see his body writhing in the agony of death as his groans issue
from the crackling flames, while the funeral pyre lights the
midnight sky with its dismal glare. My heart sinks with heaviness
within me.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see that the path of progress has never taken a straight line,
but has always been a zigzag course amid the conflicting forces of
right and wrong, truth and error, justice and injustice, cruelty
and mercy.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see that the great generous American Heart, despite the temporary
flutter, will finally beat true to the higher human impulse, and my
soul abounds with reassurance and hope.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see his marvelous advance in the rapid acquisition of knowledge
and acquirement of things material, and attainment in the higher
pursuits of life, with his face fixed upon that light which shineth
brighter and brighter unto the perfect day.</p>
<p class="hang1">I see him who was once deemed stricken, smitten of God, and
afflicted, now entering with universal welcome into the patrimony
of mankind, and I look calmly upon the centuries of blood and tears
and travail of soul, and am satisfied.</p></div>
<h4><i>III. Charles H. Conner</i></h4>
<p>As a companion piece to this litany and this vision I will present
another vision that for calm, clear beauty of style takes us immediately
back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> to <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. The author calls it a sermonette, and it
is one of three contained in a very small book entitled <i>The Enchanted
Valley</i>. But the author is no preacher. He is a ship-yard worker in
Philadelphia—I almost said a “common” worker. But such workmen were
never common, anywhere, at any time. Charles Conner wears the garb and
wields the tools of a common workman, but he has most uncommon visions.
He is a seer and a philosopher. He has informed me that there is
American Indian blood in his veins. From the mystical and philosophical
character of his writings, both prose and verse, I should have expected
an East Indian strain. Twice have I visited his humble habitation, and
each time it was a visit to the Enchanted Valley.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 190px;"><a name="ill_036" id="ill_036"></a>
<a href="images/i_210_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_210_sml.jpg" width="190" height="264" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Charles H. Conner</span></p></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT IN THE NATURAL WORLD</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>At the dawning of a day, in a deep valley, a man awoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was a valley of treasures that everywhere abounded.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He opened his eyes, and beheld the greensward bedecked with many colored
jewels that sparkled in the light.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His ears caught the medley of sounds, that awoke innumerable echoes; and
with the balmy air peopled the valley with delights. How he came there,
or why, he knew not; nor scarcely thought or cared.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As he gazed upon the multitude of things, in his heart upsprung desire;
and he gathered the treasures that lay around, till his arms were full,
and his body decked in all their bright array.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then the sun went down behind the hill; and the vale grew dark; and the
night air chill; and the place grew solemn, silent, still.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A new thing then, to mortal ken, seemed hovering on the threshold near.
A strange, fantastic thing, it crept, intangible, nearer, nearer swept,
the pallid, startling face of Fear!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But, the night brings sleep at last—and dreams; and day follows night;
and sunshine follows storm throughout the length of days. But a trace of
the dreams remains, like the faintly clinging scent that marks a hidden
trail; and so, because of his dreams, the man’s desire reached out, and
scaled the lofty peaks that walled him in.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His pleasant valley seemed too narrow and confined.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, with his treasures fondly pressed to his beating heart, he tried to
scale the heights.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He scrambled and struggled with might and main, slipped and arose; and
fell again and again. The spirit was willing, and valiant, and brave;
but the treasure encumbered it with fatal hold; and held him bound, as
with fold on fold a corpse is held in its lowly grave. So, try as he
might, he could not rise much higher than one’s hands can reach; and one
by one, his gathered treasures lost their brightness and their charm; as
gathered flowers wilt and fade; and his arms weary from the burden that
they bore, let fall and scattered lie, little by little, more and more
of the things he had gathered and vainly prized. And each thing lost was
so much lightness gained, enabling him to mount a little higher up the
rugged steep. And so it was till night was come again at last; and worn
and weary, he sank down to sleep and rest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And, as he slept, his arms relaxed their hold; and down the steep his
dwindling treasures rolled, till the last of them found their natural
level and resting place, the lower stretch of ground. ’Twas then a
strange sight met my gaze, long to be remembered in the coming days of
trial and endeavor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>From out that sleeping form a luminous haze arose, airy and white; and
glowed within it an amber fire, as it mounted higher, higher; and, as it
arose, it had the appearance of a man; and its countenance was the
countenance of him that slept. Thus up and up it winged its flight,
until above the highest peak ’twas lost to sight. I pondered the matter
in wonder and awe, until long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> past the midnight hour, how that a soul
at last gained its longed for power to win the distant height.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a kingdom of earth, and of water and of air.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Each has its own. The heavier cannot rise above its level, to the next
and lighter zone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The treasures of the soul’s desire, were treasures of earth, whose
lightest joys were too heavy and too gross to be sustained in the finer,
rarer atmosphere; and thus were as a leaden weight that anchored the
soul to earth, without its being at all aware that the things it thought
so pleasant and so fair, were shackles to bind it hard and fast; and
make it impossible for it to gain the region that instinctively it felt
and knew was the rightful place of its abode.</p>
</div>
<h4><i>IV. William Edgar Bailey</i></h4>
<p>Yet one more prose-poem I will give, as a sort of coda to the series. It
is taken from a paper-covered booklet entitled <i>The Firstling</i>, by
William Edgar Bailey, from which <i>The Slump</i>, on page 65, was taken:</p>
<p class="cpom">TO A WILD ROSE</p>
<p>The wild rose silently peeps from its uncouth habitation, thrives and
flourishes in its glory; its fragrant bud bows to sip the nectar of the
morning. Its delicate blossom blushes in the balmy breeze as the wind
tells its tale of adoration. Performing well its part, it withers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> and
decays; the chirping sparrow perches serenely on its boughs, only to
find it wrapped in sadness and solemnity—yet its grief-stained leaf and
weather beaten branches silently chant euphonic choruses in natural
song, in solemn commemoration of its faded splendor.</p>
<p>Dead, yes dead—but in thy hibernal demise dost thou bequeath a truth
eternal as the stars. I saw thee, Rose, when the elf of spring hung thy
floral firstling upon that thorny bower and robed thy ungainly form in a
garb of green, and, Rose, thou wert sweet!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I saw the same vernal sprite pay homage to thy highbrowed kinsman in
yonder stench-bestifled dell, and, in his pause of an instant, baptized
its sacred being in the same aromatic blood. I saw thee, Rose, in thy
autumnal desolation, when the Storm-God was wont to do thee harm, laid
waste thy foliage, and cast at thy feet, as a challenge, his mantle of
snow, and the Law of Non-resistance was still unbroken.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tell me thy story, Rose! Do the stars in their unweary watch breathe
forth upon thee a special benediction from the sky? Or did the wind waft
a drop of blood from the Cross to thy dell to sanctify thy being? Oh,
leave me not, thou Redeemer of the Woods, to plod the way alone! My
Nazarene, grant but to me a double portion of thy humble pride—and in
my tearful grief permit thou me to pluck a fragrant thought from thy
thorny bosom!</p>
<h4><i>V. R. Nathaniel Dett</i></h4>
<p>Primarily a composer and pianist, Mr. Dett exemplifies the close kinship
of poetry and music,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> for in the former art as well as in the latter he
exhibits a finely creative spirit. To speak first of his compositions
for the piano, the following works are widely known and greatly admired
by lovers of music: “Magnolia Suite,” “In the Bottoms Suite,” “Listen to
the Lambs,” “Marche Negre,” “Arietta,” “Magic Song,” “Open Yo’ Eyes,”
and “Hampton, My Home by the Sea.” Mr. Dett took a degree in music at
Oberlin Conservatory of Music, and a Harvard prize in music (1920). The
musical endowment for which his race is celebrated is cultured and
refined in him and guided by science. The basis of his brilliant
compositions is to be found in the folk melodies of his people. The
musical genius of his people expresses itself through him with
conscious, perfected art. To sit under the spell of his performance of
his own pieces is to acquire a new idea of the Negro people.</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_037" id="ill_037"></a>
<a href="images/i_215_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_215_sml.jpg" width="197" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">R. Nathaniel Dett</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>The same refined and exalted spirit reveals itself in Mr. Dett’s verse
as in his music. Having<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> this combination of gifts, he cannot but raise
the highest expectations. I present in this place a poem in blank verse
of nobly contemplative mood, suggesting far more, as the best poems do,
than it says:</p>
<p class="cpom">AT NIAGARA</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">—No, no! Not tonight, my Friend,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I may not, cannot go with you tonight.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And think not that I love you any less<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Because this now I’d rather be alone.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My heart is strangely torn; unwonted thoughts<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Have so infused themselves into my mind<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That altogether there is wrought in me<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A sort of hapless mood, whose phantom power<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Born perhaps of my own fantasies<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Has ta’en me. By its subtle spell<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’m wooed and changed from what’s my natural self.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I am so possessed I can but wish<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For nothing else save this and solitude.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">If in companionship I sought relief<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Yours indeed would be the first I’d seek.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">There is none other whom I so esteem,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">None who quite so perfect understands.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your presence always is a soothing balm,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">—Ne’er failing me when troubled. But tonight,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Forgive me, Friend—I’d rather be alone.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Leave me, let me with myself commune.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Presently if no change come, I shall go<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Stand in the shadowed gorge, or where the moon<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Throws her silver on the rippling stream,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">List to the sounding cataract’s thundering fall,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or hark to spirit voices in the wind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i2">For methinks sometimes that these strange moods<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Are heaven-sent us by the jealous God<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Who’d thus remind us that no human love<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Can fully satisfy the longing heart:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Perhaps an intimation sent to souls<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That he would speak somewhat, or nearer draw.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Therefore I’ll to Him. Talking waters, stars,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The moon and whispering trees shall make me wise<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In what it is He’d have my spirit know.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And Nature singing from the earth and sky<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shall fill me with such peace, that in the morn<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’ll be the gay glad self you’ve always known.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Urge me no further, now you understand.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A nobler friend than you none ever knew—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But not this time. Tonight I’ll be alone;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And if from moonlit valley God should speak,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or in the tumbling waters sound a call,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Or whisper in the sighing of the wind,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">He’ll find me with an undivided heart<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Patient waiting to hear; but Friend,—alone.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><br />
<small>DIALECT VERSE</small></h2>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> reader of these pages may ask: “But where is the Negro’s humorous
verse? Here is the pathos, where is the comedy of Negro life?” It may
also be asked where the dialect verse is, and the dramatic narratives
and character pieces that made Dunbar famous.</p>
<p>The present-day Negro poets do not, as has been asserted, spurn dialect.
Many of them have given a portion of their pages to character pieces in
dialect, humorous in effect. Whether those who have excluded such pieces
from their books have done so on principle or not I cannot say. In
general, however, these writers are too deeply earnest for dialect
verse, and the “broken tongue” is too suggestive of broken bodies and
servile souls. But by those who have employed dialect its uses and
effects have been well understood. Dialect, as is proven by Burns,
Lowell, Riley, Dunbar, often gets nearer the heart than the language of
the schools is able to do, and for home-spun philosophy, for mother-wit,
for folk-lore, and for racial humor, for whatever is quaint and peculiar
and native in any people, it is the only proper medium. Poets of the
finest art from Theocritus to Tenny<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span>son have so used it. Genius here as
elsewhere will direct the born poet and instruct him when to use dialect
and when the language that centuries of tradition have refined and
standardized and encrusted with poetic associations. There is a world of
poetic wealth in the strangely naïve heart of the rough-schooled Negro
for which the smooth-worn, disconsonanted language of the cabin and the
field is beautifully appropriate. There is also another world of poetic
wealth in the Negro of culture for which only the language of culture is
adequate. To such we must say: “All things are yours.”</p>
<p>While, as remarked, many Negro verse-writers have used dialect
occasionally, in the ways indicated, Waverley Turner Carmichael has made
it practically his one instrument of expression in his little book
entitled <i>From the Heart of a Folk</i>. A representative piece is the
following:</p>
<p class="cpom">MAMMY’S BABY SCARED</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hush now, mammy’s baby scaid,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Don’ it cry, eat yo’ bread;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nothin’ ain’t goin’ bother you,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Does’, it bothers mammy too.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mammy ain’t goin’ left it ’lone<br /></span>
<span class="i0">W’ile de chulen all are gone;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hush, now, don’ it cry no mo’e,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ain’t goin’ lay it on de flo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span>’.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Hush now, finish out yo’ nap,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">W’ile I make yo’ luttle cap;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blessid luttle sugar-pie,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hush now, baby, don’ it cry.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mammy’s goin’ to make its dres’,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Go to sleep an’ take yo’ res’;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hush now, don’ it cry no mo’e,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ain’t goin’ lay you on de flo’.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Carmichael was born at Snow Hill, Alabama, and in the Industrial
Institute there received the rudiments of an education, which was added
to by a summer term at Harvard. Since the book mentioned I have seen
nothing from his pen.</p>
<p>The elder Cotter in <i>A White Song and a Black Song</i> gives us in the
second part several dialect pieces in the most successful manner.
Several are satirical, like the following:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE DON’T-CARE NEGRO</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neber min’ what’s in your cran’um<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So your collar’s high an’ true.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Neber min’ what’s in your pocket<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So de blackin’s on your shoe.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neber min’ who keeps you comp’ny<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So he halfs up what he’s tuk.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Neber min’ what way you’s gwine<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you’s gwine away from wuk.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neber min’ de race’s troubles<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you profits by dem all.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Neber min’ your leaders’ stumblin’<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you he’ps to mak’ dem fall.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neber min’ what’s true to-morrow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you libes a dream to-day.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Neber min’ what tax is levied<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So it’s not on craps or play.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neber min’ how hard you labors<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you does it to de en’<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dat de judge is boun’ to sen’ you<br /></span>
<span class="i2">An’ your record to de “pen.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neber min’ your manhood’s risin’<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you habe a way to stay it.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Neber min’ folks’ good opinion<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you have a way to slay it.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Neber min’ man’s why an’ wharfo’<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So de worl’ is big an’ roun.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Neber min’ whar next you’s gwine to<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So you’s six foot under groun’.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Raymond Garfield Dandridge in <i>The Poet and Other Poems</i> has included a
handful of dialect pieces which prove him a master of this species of
composition. I will select but one to represent this class of his work
here:</p>
<p class="cpom">DE INNAH PART</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I ’fess Ise ugly, big, an’ ruff,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mah voice is husky, mannah’s gruff;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But, mah gal sed, “Neb mine yore hide,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I jedged you by yore inside side”;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ sed, dat she hab alwuz foun’,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">De gole beneaf de surfuss groun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>’.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She claims dat offen rail ruff hides<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Am boun’ erroun’ hi’ grade insides;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">W’ile sum dat ’pear “sharp ez a tack”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Kinceals a heart dat’s hard an’ black;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’, to prove her way ob thinkin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gibs fo’ zample Abeham Linkin.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ole “Hones’ Abe,” so lank an’ tall,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Worn’t no parlah posin’ doll:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet he stood out miles erbove<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Uddah men, in truf an’ love.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ in han’lin’ ’fairs of state,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Proved de greates’ ob de great.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In makin’ great men, Nature mus’<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Fo’ got erbout de beauty dus’<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ fashun dem frum nachel clay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">De gritty kine, dat doan decay.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But, mos’ her time she spent, I know,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Erpon de parts dat duzen show.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Two poems by Sterling M. Means, one in standard English and one in
dialect may well be placed here side by side for comparison as being
identical in theme and feeling, and differing but in manner. They are
taken from his book entitled <i>The Deserted Cabin and Other Poems</i>:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE OLD PLANTATION GRAVE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Tis a scene so sad and lonely,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">’Tis the site of ancient toil;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where our fathers bore their burdens,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where they sleep beneath the soil;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the fields are waste and barren,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where the sugar cane did grow,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where they tilled the corn and cotton,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In the years of long ago;<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And along the piney hillside,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where the hound pursued the slave,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In the dreary years of bondage,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">There he fills an humble grave.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE OLD DESERTED CABIN</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dis ole deserted cabin<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Remin’s me ob de past;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ when I gits ter t’inkin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">De tears comes t’ick an’ fast.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I wunner whur’s A’nt Doshy,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I wunner whur’s Brur Jim;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I hyeahs no corn-songs ringin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I hyeahs no Gospel hymn.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dis ole deserted cabin<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Am tumblin’ in decay;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ all its ole-time dwellers<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Hab gone de silent way.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dey voices hushed in silence,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">De cabin drear an’ lone;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">An’ dey who used ter lib hyeah<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Long sense is dead an’ gone.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>J. Mord Allen’s poems and tales in dialect are worthy of distinction.
They are executed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> the true spirit of art. I should rank his book,
elsewhere named, as one of the few best the Negro has contributed to
literature. I will give here one specimen of his dialect verse:</p>
<p class="cpom">A VICTIM OF MICROBES</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p class="c">NOTE.—Physicians are agreed that laziness is a microbe disease.</p></div>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">Go en fetch er lawyer, ’Tilda,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">’Kaze I wants ter make mah will;<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Neenter min’ erbout de doctor—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">’Tain’t no use ter take er pill.—<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Chunk up de kitchen fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">En fetch mah easy-ch’er,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">En put er piller in it:<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Maybe I’ll git better hyeah.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I done hyeahed de doctor say it—de doctor hisse’f said it—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I’m plumb chock full o’ microbes en mah time’s ercomin’ quick.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So, ’stid o’ up en fussin’ wid me fer bein’ lazy,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Yer’d better be er nussin’ me, ’kaze I’m jes’ mighty sick.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">I ’spec’ I must er cotch it<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Back in Tennessee;<br /></span>
<span class="i3">’Kaze, fur ez I kin ’member,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">I wuz bad ez I could be—<br /></span>
<span class="i3">P’intly hated hoein’ ’taters—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Couldn’t chop er stick o’ wood—<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Couldn’t pick er sack o’ cotton—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Never wuz er lick o’ good.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">En de folks dey called me lazy—my own mammy called me lazy<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When, ’stid o’ gwine plowin’, I wuz fishin’ in de creek;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Took en tole de white folks ’bout it, en made er heap o’ trouble,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">En all fer want o’ medersun—me bein’ mighty sick.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">So, now yer knows de reason<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Why I’m always loafin’ ’roun’,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">When jobs is runnin’ after men<br /></span>
<span class="i4">In ev’y part o’ town.<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Dar’s patches on mah breeches,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">En you’s er sight ter see;<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Dat’s de work o’ dem same microbes,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">En it kain’t be laid on me.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Kaze de doctor he explained it, en de doctor’s book explained it,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">En some Latin words explained it, en explained it mighty quick—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It’s mah lights er else mah liver, er maybe, its mah stomach—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">It’s somep’n in mah insides, en it sho’ has made me sick.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">En so, I hope yer’ll git yerse’f<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Er washin’, now, er two,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Er get er job o’ scrubbin’<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Er somp’n else ter do;<br /></span>
<span class="i3">’Kaze dat doctor p’intly showed me<br /></span>
<span class="i4">So I couldn’t he’p but tell<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Dat dem microbes got me han’ en foot<br /></span>
<span class="i4">En I jes’ kain’t git well.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Darfo’ I hope yer’ll he’p me ter pass mah las’ days easy,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">En keep er fire in de stove en somep’n in de pan.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I know it’s hard ter do it, en I’m sorry I kain’t he’p yer;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But me ’n de doctor bofe knows I’m er mighty sick man.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>James Weldon Johnson entitled a section of his book <i>Jingles and
Croons</i>. Among these pieces, so disparagingly designated, are to be
found some of the best dialect writing in the whole range of Negro
literature. Every quality of excellence is there. The one piece I give
is perhaps not above the average of a score in his book:</p>
<p class="cpom">MY LADY’S LIPS AM LIKE DE HONEY</p>
<p class="c">(Negro Love Song)</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Breeze a-sighin’ and a-blowin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Southern summer night.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stars a-gleamin’ and a-glowin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Moon jus shinin’ right.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Strollin’, like all lovers do,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Down de lane wid Lindy Lou;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Honey on her lips to waste;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Speck I’m gwine to steal a taste.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;<br /></span>
<span class="i3">An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’<br /></span>
<span class="i3">’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Bird a-whistlin’ and a-swayin’<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In de live-oak tree;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seems to me he keeps a-sayin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Kiss dat gal fo’ me.”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Look heah, Mister Mockin’ Bird,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gwine to take you at yo’ word;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If I meets ma Waterloo,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gwine to blame it all on you.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;<br /></span>
<span class="i3">An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’<br /></span>
<span class="i3">’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Honey in de rose, I ’spose, is<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Put der fo’ de bee;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Honey on her lips, I knows, is<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Put der jes fo’ me.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seen a sparkle in her eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Heard her heave a little sigh;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Felt her kinder squeeze mah han’,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Nuff to make me understan’.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Numerous other writers would furnish quite as good specimens of
dialectical verse as those given. This medium of artistic expression is
not being neglected, it is only made secondary and, as it were,
incidental. By perhaps half of the poets it is not used. With a few, and
they of no little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> talent, it is the main medium. Among this few,
Carmichael has been named; S. Jonathan Clark, of Dublin, Mississippi,
and Theodore Henry Shackelford, of Jamaica Plains, New York, are others.</p>
<div class="figleft" style="width: 195px;"><a name="ill_038" id="ill_038"></a>
<a href="images/i_228_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_228_sml.jpg" width="195" height="254" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Theodore Henry Shackelford</span></p></div>
</div>
<p>Shackelford, with little schooling, displays a versatility of talent.
His own pen has illustrated with interesting realistic sketches his book
entitled <i>My Country and Other Poems</i>, and for some of his lyrics he has
written music. A large proportion of his pieces are in dialect, much in
the spirit of Dunbar. His best productions in standard English are
ballads. He tells a tale in verse with Wordsworthian simplicity and
feeling. Mr. Clark is a school principal, with the education that
implies. He has not yet published a book.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><br />
<small>THE POETRY OF PROTEST</small></h2>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 359px;"><a name="ill_039" id="ill_039"></a>
<a href="images/i_229_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_229_sml.jpg" width="359" height="212" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Equality and Justice for All</span></p>
<p>(Photograph of a panel of the Carl Schurz Monument)</p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">As</span> elsewhere intimated there is being produced in America a literature
of which America, as the term is commonly understood, is not aware. It
is a literature of protest—protest sometimes pathetic and prayerful,
sometimes vehement and bitter. It comes from Negro writers, in prose and
verse, in the various forms of fiction, drama, essay, editorial, and
lyric. It is only with the lyric form that we are here concerned. Of
that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> we shall make a special presentation, in this chapter.</p>
<p>An artistic and restrained expression of the protest against irrational
color prejudice, in the plaintive, pathetic key, is found in the
following free-verse poem by Winston Allen:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE BLACK VIOLINIST</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I touched the violin,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I, whose hand was black,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I touched the violin<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In a grand salon.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I touched the violin<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In a Russian palace.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I touched the violin<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the dream-born strains<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Chanted by the Congo<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Soared to Heaven’s chambers.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Could I touch the violin?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I, whose hand was black?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And bring to life dream music?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Men had taunted me,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Age-worn months: their jeers<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Snapped to bits my heartstrings,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Snapped my inner soul;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And the sting of living<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tortured me the livelong day.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Sometimes the protest runs in a lighter vein—as thus, in verses
entitled:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">OLD JIM CROW</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Wherever we live, it’s right to forgive,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">It’s wrong to hold malice, we know,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But there’s one thing that’s true, from all points of view,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All Negroes hate old man Jim Crow.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">His home is in hell; he loves here to dwell;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">We meet him wherever we go;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In all public places, where live both the races,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You’ll always see Mr. Jim Crow.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Be we well educated, even to genius related,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">We may have a big pile of dough,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That cuts not a figger, you still are a nigger,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And that is the law with Jim Crow.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>The Nashville Eye.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>But the Negro is seldom humorous these days on the subject of racial
discriminations. Occasionally, in dialect verse, he still makes merry
with the foibles or over-accentuated traits of certain types of the
Negro. In general, however, the Negro verse-smith goes to his work with
a grim aspect. He is there to smite. Sometimes the anvil clangs, more
mightily than musically. But there is precedent.</p>
<p>A stanza each from two poems somewhat intense will serve to show the
character of much verse in Negro newspapers. The first is from verses
entitled “Sympathy,” by Tilford Jones:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Mourn for the thousands slain,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The youthful and the strong;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mourn for the last; but pray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For those hung by the mobbing throng.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pray to our God above,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To break the fell destroyer’s sway,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And show His saving love.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The second is the last stanza of a poem entitled <i>Shall Race Hatred
Prevail?</i> by Adeline Carter Watson.</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">By the tears of Negro mothers,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By the woes of Negro wives,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By the sighs of Negro children,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By your gallant snuffed-out lives,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">By the throne of God eternal;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Standing hard by Heaven’s gate,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ye shall crush this cursed, infernal,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Western stigma: groundless hate!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The following two poems have a world of pathos for every reflecting
person, in the unanswered question of each. The first is by Mrs. Georgia
Douglas Johnson:</p>
<p class="cpom">TO MY SON</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Shall I say, “My son, you are branded in this country’s pageantry,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Foully tethered, bound forever, and no forum makes you free?”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall I mark the young light fading through your soul-enchanneled eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As the dusky pall of shadows screen the highway of your sky?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or shall I with love prophetic bid you dauntlessly arise,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Spurn the handicap that binds you, taking what the world denies?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bid you storm the sullen fortress built by prejudice and wrong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With a faith that shall not falter in your heart and on your tongue!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The second is by Will Sexton:</p>
<p class="cpom">TO MY LOST CHILD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">It is well, child of my heart, the rosebush drops its petals on your grave.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It is well, child of my heart, the sparrow sings to you when Aurora has rouged the sky.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In your trundle bed deep in the bosom of the earth you can dream pleasanter dreams than I.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You have never felt the sting of living in a white man’s civilization and beneath a white man’s laws.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You have never been forced to dance to the music of hate played by an idle orchestra.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You have never toiled long hours and bowed and scraped for the chance to breathe.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In your dreams you wonder in the Heaven beyond the skies with the God civilization rebukes.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tell me, little child, are you not happy in that realm no white man can enter?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In much of this utterance of protest, this arraignment of the white
man’s civilization that rebukes God, there may be more passion than
poesy. But out of such passion, as it were a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> rumbling of thunder, the
lightning will one day leap. A poet born and reared in South Carolina,
Joshua Henry Jones, Jr., appeals from man’s inhumanities to God’s
prevailing power in passionate stanzas of which this is the first, the
rest being like:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">They’ve lynched a man in Dixie.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O God, behold the crime.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And midst the mad mob’s howling<br /></span>
<span class="i2">How sweet the church bells chime!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They’ve lynched a man in Dixie.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">You say this cannot be?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">See where his lead-torn body<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Mute hangs from yonder tree.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>This or a similar lynching provoked the following lines from another,
Walter Everette Hawkins, in a poem entitled <i>A Festival in Christendom</i>.
After relating that the white people of a certain community were on
their way to church on the Sabbath day, the poem continues:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And so this Christian mob did turn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From prayer to rob, to lynch and burn.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A victim helplessly he fell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To tortures truly kin to hell;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They bound him fast and strung him high,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They cut him down lest he should die<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before their energy was spent<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In torturing to their heart’s content.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">They tore his flesh and broke his bones,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And laughed in triumph at his groans;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They chopped his fingers, clipped his ears<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And passed them round as souvenirs.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They bored hot irons in his side<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And reveled in their zeal and pride;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They cut his quivering flesh away<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And danced and sang as Christians may;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then from his side they tore his heart<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And watched its quivering fibres dart.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And then upon his mangled frame<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They piled the wood, the oil and flame.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lest there be left one of his creed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One to perpetuate his breed;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lest there be one to bear his name<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or build the stock from which he came,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They dragged his bride up to the pyre<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And plunged her headlong in the fire,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Full-freighted with an unborn child,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hot embers on her form they piled.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And they raised a Sabbath song,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The echo sounded wild and strong,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A benediction to the skies<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That crowned the human sacrifice.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Few are the poets quoted or mentioned in this volume who have not
contributed to this literature of protest. James Weldon Johnson, whose
predominant motive is artistic creation, affords more than one poem in
which the note of protest is sounded in pathos. Pathos is indeed the
characteristic note of the great body of Negro verse. Aided by the two
preceding extracts to an under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span>standing of Johnson’s point of view, the
reader will appreciate the following poem, remarkable for that restraint
which adds to the potency of art:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE BLACK MAMMY</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O whitened head entwined with turban gay,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O kind black face, O crude, but tender hand,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O foster-mother in whose arms there lay<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The race whose sons are masters of the land!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It was thine arms that sheltered in their fold,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It was thine eyes that followed through the length<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of infant days these sons. In times of old<br /></span>
<span class="i0">It was thy breast that nourished them to strength.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So often hast thou to thy bosom pressed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The golden head, the face and brow of snow;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So often has it ’gainst thy broad, dark breast<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lain, set off like a quickened cameo.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thou simple soul, as cuddling down that babe<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With thy sweet croon, so plaintive and so wild,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Came ne’er the thought to thee, swift like a stab,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That it some day might crush thine own black child?<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>There died in Fort McHenry hospital, February, 2, 1921, a soldier-poet
of the Negro race, who had been called “the poet laureate of the New
Negro,” his name Lucian B. Watkins. He deserved the title, whatever may
be the exact definition of “the New Negro.” For in his lyrics, of many
forms, racial consciousness reached a degree of intensity to which only
a disciplined<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> sense of art set a limit.—He was born in a cabin at
Chesterfield, Virginia, struggled in the usual way for the rudiments of
book-knowledge, became a teacher, then a soldier. His health was wrecked
in the World War. He died before his powers were matured.—Short and
simple are the annals of the poet. Before one of his intenser race poems
I shall give his last lyric cry, uttered but a few days before his
lingering death:</p>
<div class="figright" style="width: 192px;"><a name="ill_040" id="ill_040"></a>
<a href="images/i_237_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_237_sml.jpg" width="192" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Lucian B. Watkins</span></p></div>
</div>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My fallen star has spent its light<br /></span>
<span class="i4">And left but memory to me;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My day of dream has kissed the night<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Farewell, its sun no more I see;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My summer bloomed for winter’s frost:<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Alas, I’ve lived and loved and lost!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What matters it to-day should earth<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Lay on my head a gold-bright crown<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Lit with the gems of royal worth<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Befitting well a king’s renown?—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My lonely soul is trouble-tossed,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">For I have lived and loved and lost.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Great God! I dare not question Thee—<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Thy way eternally is just;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">This seeming mystery to me<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Will be revealed, if I but trust;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, Thou alone dost know the cost<br /></span>
<span class="i4">When one has lived and loved and lost.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The following sonnet, entitled “The New Negro,” will serve to represent
much of Watkins’s verse:</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">He thinks in black. His God is but the same<br /></span>
<span class="i0">John saw—with hair “like wool” and eyes “as fire”—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who makes the visions for which men aspire.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His kin is Jesus and the Christ who came<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Humbly to earth and wrought His hallowed aim<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Midst human scorn. Pure is his heart’s desire;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His life’s religion lifts; his faith leads higher.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Love is his Church, and Union is its name.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Lo, he has learned his own immortal rôle<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In this momentous drama of the hour;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Has read aright the heavens’ Scriptural scroll<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Bove ancient wrong—long boasting in its tower.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ah, he has sensed the truth. Deep in his soul<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He feels the manly majesty of power.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The protest not infrequently takes the form of entreaty and appeal,
sometimes the form of an invocation of divine wrath upon the doers of
evil. The following poem from Watkins, unique and effective in form and
biblical phrasing, is the kind of appeal that will not out of the mind:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span></p>
<p class="cpom">A MESSAGE TO THE MODERN PHARAOHS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">(Loose him and let him go—John 11.44)<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Loose him!”—this man on whom you plod<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Beneath your heel hate-iron-shod;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His silent sorrow troubles God—<br /></span>
<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">There will be plagues, wars will not cease,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There cannot be a lasting peace<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Until this being you release—<br /></span>
<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Each doomful kingdom—throne and crown—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Built on the lowly fettered down,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Shall perish—lo, the heavens frown—<br /></span>
<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Naught but a name is Liberty,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Naught but a name—Democracy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Till love has made each mortal free—<br /></span>
<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Loose him!” He has his part to play<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In Life’s Great Drama, day by day,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He has his mission, God’s own way,—<br /></span>
<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Loose him!” ’Twill be your master rôle,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Twill be your triumph and your goal:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">’Twill be the saving of your soul—<br /></span>
<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>Mr. Hawkins, whom I have quoted, entitled his book <i>Chords and
Discords</i>. What did he mean by “discords”? Perhaps a disparagement of
his muse’s efforts at music. Perhaps, and rather, something in the
content, for the contrasts are sharp, the tones are piercing. These
“discords” abound in contemporary Negro verse. Between the octave and
the sestet of the following sonnet, by Mrs. Carrie W. Clifford, the
discord is of the kind that stabs you:</p>
<p class="cpom">AN EASTER MESSAGE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Now quivering to life, all nature thrills<br /></span>
<span class="i0">At the approach of that triumphant queen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Pink-fingered Easter, trailing robes of green<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Tunefully o’er the flower-embroidered hills,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her hair perfumed of myriad daffodils:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Upon her swelling bosom now are seen<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dream-frail lilies with their snowy sheen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As lightly she o’erleaps the spring-time rills.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To black folk choked within the deadly grasp<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of racial hate, what message does she bring<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of resurrection and the hope of spring?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Assurance their death-stupor is a mask—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A sleep, with elements potential, rife,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Ready to burst full-flowered into life.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The Negro’s deep resentment of his wrongs has found its most artistic
expression in the verse of a poet who came to us from Jamaica—Mr.
Claude McKay. In another chapter I have given the reader an opportunity
to judge of his merits. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> will be represented here by a sonnet,
written, I believe, shortly after the race-riot in the national capital,
July, 1919. It has been widely reprinted in the Negro newspapers.</p>
<p class="cpom">IF WE MUST DIE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">If we must die, let it not be like hogs<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Making their mock at our accursed lot.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">If we must die—oh, let us nobly die,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">So that our precious blood may not be shed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In vain; then even the monsters we defy<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Shall be constrained to honor us, though dead!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Oh, kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">What though before us lies the open grave?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Pressed to the wall, dying, but—fighting back!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Race consciousness has recently attained an extraordinary pitch in the
Negro, and there seems to be no prospect of any abatement. The
verse-smiths one and all have borne witness to a feeling of great
intensity on all subjects pertaining to their race—the discriminations
and injustices practised against it, the limitations that would be
imposed upon it, the contumelies that would offend it. Ardent appeals
are therefore made to race pride and ardent exhortations to race unity.
The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> ancient rôle of the poet whereby he is identified with the prophet
is being resumed by the enkindled souls of black men. With their natural
gift for music and eloquence, with their increasing culture, with their
building up of a poetic tradition now in process, with this
intensification of race consciousness, almost anything may be expected
of the Negro in another generation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><br />
<small>MISCELLANEOUS POEMS</small></h2>
<h4><i>I. Eulogistic</i></h4>
<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_041" id="ill_041"></a>
<a href="images/i_243_lg.jpg">
<img src="images/i_243_sml.jpg" width="194" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a>
<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mae Smith Johnson</span></p></div>
</div>
<p><span class="smcap">Altogether</span> admirable is the disposition of Negro verse-writers to
eulogize the notable personages of their race, the men and women who
have blazed the trail of advance. The mention of Attucks, Black Sampson,
Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, and others like these, all practically
unknown to white readers, is frequent, and reverential odes and sonnets
to Douglass, Toussaint L’Ouverture, Washington, Dunbar, are many and
enthusiastic. Here as elsewhere, however, I refrain from giving mere
titles and from comments on productions merely cited. The reader will
find such poems as I allude to in every poet’s volume.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> I refer to this
body of eulogistic verse only to suggest to the reader who takes up the
writings of the American Negroes that he will learn that they have a
heritage of heroic traditions from which poetry springs in every race.</p>
<p>Instead of giving here such specimens of poetic eulogy as I have alluded
to, however, I shall give a few poems of a more general significance,
poems of appeal or tribute to the entire black race or poems of
affectionate tribute to individuals. A free-verse poem entitled “The
Negro,” by Mr. Langston Hughes, on page 200, may be recalled. Here is a
sonnet with the same title, by Mr. McKay, which appeared in <i>The
People’s Pilot</i>, published in Richmond, Va.:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Think ye I am not fiend and savage too?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Think ye I could not arm me with a gun<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And shoot down ten of you for every one<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Be not deceived, for every deed ye do<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I could match—outmatch: am I not Afric’s son,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Black of that black land where black deeds are done?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But the Almighty from the darkness drew<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Awhile to burn on the benighted earth;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thy dusky face I set among the white<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For thee to prove thyself of highest worth;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Before the world is swallowed up in night,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To show thy little lamp; go forth, go forth!<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p>From another Virginia magazine, also now defunct, <i>The Praiseworthy
Muse</i>, of Norfolk, I take the following poem, signed by John J. Fenner,
Jr.:</p>
<p class="cpom">RISE! YOUNG NEGRO—RISE!</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Ho! we from slumber wake!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Begin our daily task anew—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Thank God we’re spared to—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Thy task may be an humble one.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">However great, however small,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Honesty and respect for all—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Each has a race to run.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Enter now while we’re young,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though weak and just begun.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Our banner flown will some day read:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Victory’s ours! We’ve won the race.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Then let us live in God by grace.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>In spirit and in form both these productions seem to be quite
noteworthy. The first has in it something darkly and terribly ominous,
while the second has all the fervor of religion in its youth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> The class
of poems to follow will afford a contrast. They will bear witness to
that pride of race, perhaps, which we of the white race have commended
to the colored people:</p>
<p class="cpom">DAYBREAK</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Awake! Arise! Men of my race—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I see our morning star,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And feel the dawn breeze on my face<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Creep inward from afar.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I feel the dawn, with soft-like tread,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Steal through our lingering night,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Aglow with flame our sky to spread<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In floods of morning light.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Arise, my men! Be wide-awake<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To hear the bugle call<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For Negroes everywhere to break<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The bands that bind us all.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Great Lincoln, now with glory graced,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All Godlike with the pen,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Our chattel fetters broke and placed<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Us in the ranks of men.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">But even he could not awake<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The dead, nor make alive,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor change stern Nature’s laws, which make<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The fittest to survive.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Let every man his soul inure<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In noblest sacrifice,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And with a heart of oak endure<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ignoble, arrant prejudice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Endurance, love, will yet prevail<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Against all laws of hate;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Such armaments can never fail<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Our race its best estate.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Let none make common cause with sin,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Be that in honor bound,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For they who fight with God must win<br /></span>
<span class="i2">On every battleground.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Though wrongs there are, and wrongs have been,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And wrongs we still must face,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We have more friends than foes within<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The Anglo-Saxon race.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In spite of all the Babel cries<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of those who rage and shout,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">God’s silent forces daily rise<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To bring his will about.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>George Marion McClellan.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO WOMAN</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Were it mine to select a woman<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As queen of the hall of fame;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One who has fought the gamest fight<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And climbed from the depths of shame;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I would have to give the sceptre<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To the lowliest of them all;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She, who has struggled through the years,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With her back against the wall.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Wronged by the men of an alien race,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Deserted by those of her own;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With a prayer in her heart, a song on her lips<br /></span>
<span class="i2">She has carried the fight alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">In spite of the snares all around her;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Her marvelous pluck has prevailed<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And kept her home together—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When even her men have failed.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What of her sweet, simple nature?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">What of her natural grace?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her richness and fullness of color,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That adds to the charm of her face?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Is there a woman more shapely?<br /></span>
<span class="i2">More vigorous, loving and true?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yea, wonderful Negro woman<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The honor I’d give to you.<br /></span>
<span class="i10"><i>Andrea Razafkeriefo.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO CHILD</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My little one of ebon hue,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My little one with fluffy hair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The wide, wide world is calling you<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To think and do and dare.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The lessons of stern yesterdays<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That stir your blood and poise your brain<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are etching out the simple ways<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By which you must attain.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">An echo here, a memory there,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">An act that links itself with truth;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A vision that makes troubles air<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And toils the joy of youth.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">These be your food, your drink, your rest,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">These be your moods of drudgeful ease,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For these be nature’s spur and test<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And heaven’s fair decrees.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My little one of ebon hue,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My little one with fluffy hair,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Go train your head and hands to do,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your head and heart to dare.<br /></span>
<span class="i10"><i>Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THE MOTHER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The mother soothes her mantled child<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With plaintive melody, and wild;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A deep compassion brims her eye<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And stills upon her lips the sigh.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Her thoughts are leaping down the years,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O’er branding bars, through seething tears:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her heart is sandaling his feet<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Adown the world’s corroding street.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then, with a start, she dons a smile,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">His tender yearnings to beguile;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And only God will ever know<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The wordless measure of her woe.<br /></span>
<span class="i10"><i>Georgia Douglas Johnson.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The foregoing poems are generic in character, the following, specific.
And yet there is much in these also that is typical and universal:</p>
<p class="cpom">TO A NEGRO MOTHER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I hear you croon a little lullaby,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I see you press his little lips to yours,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Again old scenes come to my memory,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">As if Love’s stream had gained the long lost shores;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if the tidal wave of human good<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Had thrown o’er me the mantle of control;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As if the beauty of true motherhood<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Had gained the premise of my common soul.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The poet’s heart is yet within your breast,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The captain’s sword unconsciously you wield;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You know the sculptor’s masterpiece the best,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thro’ you the master painter is revealed.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In you there dwells the Race’s latent power—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The power to make, the power to break apart;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The power to lift, the power again to lower<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That burnished shield that guards the Race’s heart.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And am I speaking as in hapless rhymes<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of things at least that may not come to pass?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Or is it not the spirit of the times<br /></span>
<span class="i2">All things that savour power to amass?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Canst thou not see within thine own pure soul<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That which thy Race and all the world awaits,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The master-leader who will reach the goal<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And hew with sword of flame the city gates?<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">O Negro mother, from the dust arise,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Take up your task with grace and fortitude,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Knowing the goal is not the azure skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But here, and now, for thine own Race’s good.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Create anew the captains of the past;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Build in your soul the Ethiopian power,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That when the mighty quest is gained at last,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O Negro mother, fame shall be your dower.<br /></span>
<span class="i13"><i>Ben E. Burrell.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">TO MY GRANDMOTHER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">You ’mind me of the winter’s eve<br /></span>
<span class="i2">When low the sinking sun<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Casts soft bright rays upon the snow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And day, now almost done,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">In silence deep prepares to leave,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And calmly waits the signal “Go.”<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Your eyes are faded vestal lights<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That once the hearth illumed,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where vestal virgins vigil kept,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And budding virtue bloomed:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like stars that beam on summer nights,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your eyes, by joy and sorrow swept.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Asleep, one night, an angel kissed<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your hair and on the morn<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The raven threads were silv’ry gray;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The angel fair had borne<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your youth away ere it you missed<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And left old age to bless your way.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Smile on, for when you smile, it seems<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I cannot do a wrong;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your smiles go with me all the while<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And make life one sweet song;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And oft at night my troubled dream<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Grows gay at thoughts of your bright smile.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dark Africa with Caucasian blood<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To tinge your veins combined,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your proud head bowed to slavery’s thrall,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Your hands to toil consigned.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Lord of hosts becalmed the flood,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The God Omnipotent o’er all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Your ears have heard the din of war,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The martial tramp of feet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Your voice has risen to your God<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In supplications sweet.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">May angels kiss each furrowed scar<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Upon your brow where care has trod.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">God bless the hands all withered now<br /></span>
<span class="i2">By age and weary care.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">God rest the feet that sought the way<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To freedom bright and fair.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">God bless thy life and e’er endow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Thee with new strength each new-born day.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Mae Smith Johnson.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">EBON MAID AND GIRL OF MINE</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The sweetest charm of all the earth<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Came into being with her birth.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">All that without her we would lack<br /></span>
<span class="i0">She is in purity and black.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The pansy and the violet,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The dark of all the flowers met<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And gave their wealth of color in<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sable beauty of her skin.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Glad winds of evening are her face,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Gentle with love and rich in grace;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The blazing splendors of her eyes<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are jewels from the midnight skies.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Her hair—the darkness caught and curled,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ancient wonder of the world—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Seems, in its strange, uncertain length,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A constant crown of queenly strength.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Her smile, it is the rising moon,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The waking of a night in June;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her teeth are tips of white, they gleam<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like starlight in a happy dream.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Her laughter is a Christmas bell<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of “peace on earth and all is well!”<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Her voice—it is the dearest part<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Of all the glory in her heart.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The height of joy, the deep of tears,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The surging passion of the years,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The mystery and dark of things,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We feel their meanings when she sings.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Her thoughts are pure and every one<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But makes her good to look upon.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Daughter of God! you are divine,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">O, Ebon Maid and Girl of Mine!<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Lucian B. Watkins.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>I will conclude this section with a very well rhymed tribute to two
Negro bards between whom there was a friendship and a correspondence
similar to that which existed between Burns and Lapraik. The writer,
James Edgar French, was a native of Kentucky, studied for the ministry,
and died early:</p>
<p class="cpom">DUNBAR AND COTTER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dunbar and Cotter! foster-brothers, ye,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nurst at the breast of heav’nly minstrelsy!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The first two Negroes who have dared to climb<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Parnassus’ mount, and carve your names in rhyme;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who, over icy walls of prejudice,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Where twice ten thousand gorgon monsters hiss,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did scale the peak and make the steep ascent;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For which great feat ye had small precedent.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There were who said: “The Negro is not fit<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To write good prose, much less to rhyme with wit”;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That nothing ever Negroes could inspire<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With Spenser’s fancy or with Shakespere’s fire:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With Dryden’s vigor, with the ease of Pope,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To weave the iambic pentametric rope,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But ye, immortal sons of Afric, ye<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Have proved these charges gross absurdity;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That old Dame Nature’s no respecter in<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Regard to person or the hue of skin.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Omnific God, at whose fiatic hand<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Did primogenial light deluge the land;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Whose word supreme did out of chaos draw<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A world, and order made its guiding law,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bequeath’d like talents to the black and white;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To read form’d some and others made to write;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To govern these, and those to governed be,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And you, great twain, endued with poesy!<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>James Edgar French.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<h4><i>II. Commemorative and Occasional</i></h4>
<p>From this body of Negro verse which I have been describing and giving
specimens of may be selected pieces commemorative of days and seasons
that are quite up to the standard of similar pieces provided for white
children in their school-readers. These selections will further
illustrate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> the variety of themes and emotional responses in this body
of contemporary verse.</p>
<p>The first selection hardly needs any allowance to be made for it, I
think, on the score that it was written by a girl only sixteen years of
age:</p>
<p class="cpom">CHRISTMAS CHEER</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">’Tis Christmas time! ’Tis Christmas time!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dear hallowed name of every clime!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How each one’s heart now happy feels,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How each one’s face fresh joy reveals<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As Christmas Day is drawing near<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The merriest day of all the year!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Old spite and hate, the scowl, the sneer<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are vanquished, all, by kindly cheer,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And friendships nigh forgot and cold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Glow warm again as once of old.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Man’s worries cease, his hope returns,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His breast with love now brighter burns;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">So, Christmas cheer! Oh, Christmas cheer!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A hearty welcome to you here.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A welcome through the world where trod<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The source of joy, the Son of God,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The Lowly One who from above<br /></span>
<span class="i0">First warmed cold earth with gladsome love:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Who still proclaims with golden voice,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">“Peace on earth! Rejoice! Rejoice!”<br /></span>
<span class="i10"><i>Corinne E. Lewis.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>If the reader is disposed to make comparisons he might recall, without
very great detriment to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> the following poem, Tennyson’s famous stanzas
on the same theme. It is in the effective manner of the poems already
given from its author:</p>
<p class="cpom">GOODBYE OLD YEAR</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Here comes New.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You’ve done wonders; now you’re through;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Adding wisdom to the ages,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Making history’s best pages;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rest and slumber with the sages.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Good-bye, Old Year. Welcome, New.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Welcome, New.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Off with false hopes; on with true.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nations raise a mighty chorus,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rich intoning, grand, sonorous,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Blithe and gladsome, sad, dolorous;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Welcome, New.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Off with false hopes. On with true.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Hail the New.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Goodbye, hatreds. Wrongs, adieu.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Down Life’s lane, with high or lowly,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Weak, or strong, sin-cursed, or holy,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Time is reaping—trudging slowly.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Hail the New.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Goodbye, hatreds. Wrongs, adieu.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Come in, New.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stout hearts look for light to you.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rising hopes new scenes are staging;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Brotherhood our thoughts engaging.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dreams of Peace hide battle raging.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Come in, New.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Stout hearts fondly look to you.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>The remainder of the series will be given without comment:</p>
<p class="cpom">THE MONTHS</p>
<p class="cpom">January</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">To herald in another year,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With rhythmic note the snowflakes fall<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Silently from their crystal courts,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To answer Winter’s call.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Wake, mortal! Time is winged anew!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Call Love and Hope and Faith to fill<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The chambers of thy soul to-day;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Life hath its blessings still!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">February</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The icicles upon the pane<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Are busy architects; they leave<br /></span>
<span class="i0">What temples and what chiseled forms<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Of leaf and flower! Then believe<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That though the woods be brown and bare,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And sunbeams peep through cloudy veils,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Though tempests howl through leaden skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The springtime never fails!<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">March</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Robin! Robin! call the Springtime!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">March is halting on his way;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">Hear the gusts. What! snowflakes falling!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Look not for the grass to-day.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Ay, the wind will frisk and play,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And we cannot say it nay.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">April</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She trips across the meadows,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The weird, capricious elf!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The buds unfold their perfumed cups<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For love of her sweet self;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And silver-throated birds begin to tune their lyres,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While wind-harps lend their strains to Nature’s magic choirs.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">May</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sweet, winsome May, coy, pensive, fay,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Comes garlanded with lily-bells,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And apple blooms shed incense through the bow’r,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">To be her dow’r;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While through the leafy dells<br /></span>
<span class="i2">A wondrous concert swells<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To welcome May, the dainty fay.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">June</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Roses, roses, roses,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Creamy, fragrant, dewy!<br /></span>
<span class="i2">See the rainbow shower!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Was there e’er so sweet a flower?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">I’m the rose-nymph, June they call me.<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Sunset’s blush is not more fair<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Than the gift of bloom so rare,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Mortal, that I bring to thee!<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">July</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Sunshine and shadow play amid the trees<br /></span>
<span class="i2">In bosky groves, while from the vivid sky<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The sun’s gold arrows fleck the fields at noon,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Where weary cattle to their slumber hie.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How sweet the music of the purling rill,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Trickling adown the grassy hill!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While dreamy fancies come to give repose<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When the first star of evening glows.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">August</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Haste to the mighty ocean,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">List to the lapsing waves;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With what a strange commotion<br /></span>
<span class="i2">They seek their coral caves.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">From heat and turmoil let us oft return,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The ocean’s solemn majesty to learn.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">September</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">With what a gentle sound<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The autumn leaves drop to the ground;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The many-colored dyes,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">They greet our watching eyes.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Rosy and russet, how they fall!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Throwing o’er earth a leafy pall.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">October</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The mellow moon hangs golden in the sky,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">The vintage song is over, far and nigh<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A richer beauty Nature weareth now,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And silently, in reverence we bow<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Before the forest altars, off’ring praise<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To Him who sweetness gives to all our days.<br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">November</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">The leaves are sere,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The woods are drear,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The breeze, that erst so merrily did play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Naught giveth save a melancholy lay;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Yet life’s great lessons do not fail<br /></span>
<span class="i0">E’en in November’s gale.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">December</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">List! List! the sleigh bells peal across the snow;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The frost’s sharp arrows touch the earth and lo!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">How diamond-bright the stars do scintillate<br /></span>
<span class="i0">When Night hath lit her lamps to Heaven’s gate.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To the dim forest’s cloistered arches go,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And seek the holly and the mistletoe;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For soon the bells of Christmas-tide will ring<br /></span>
<span class="i0">To hail the Heavenly King!<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>H. Cordelia Ray.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">WHILE APRIL BREEZES BLOW</p>
<p class="c">(A Song for Arbor Day.)</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, let us plant a tree today—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Forsake your book, forsake your play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Bring out the spade and hie away<br /></span>
<span class="i3">While April breezes blow.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Your life is young, and it should be<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As full of vigor as this tree,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">As fair, as upright and as free,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">While April breezes blow.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, let us plant a tree to stand<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Both fair and useful in the land,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Supremely tall and nobly grand<br /></span>
<span class="i3">A strong and trusty oak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span><br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Dig deep and let the long roots hold<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A firm embrace within the mold:<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And may your life in truth unfold<br /></span>
<span class="i3">A strong and trusty oak.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Come, let us plant a supple ash,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A tree to bend when others crash,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And stand when vivid lightnings flash,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">And clouds pour down the rain:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So while we plant we’ll learn to bend<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And hold our ground, tho’ storms descend<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Throughout our life, and lightnings rend,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">And clouds pour down the rain.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Then let us plant these trees between<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A graceful spruce in living green,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That e’en in winter days is seen<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Like changeless springtime still:<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">And so may you as years go by,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And winter comes and snowflakes fly,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Be yet in heart, and mind and eye,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">Like changeless springtime still.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Bring out the spade and hie away,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And let us plant a tree today<br /></span>
<span class="i0">While skies are bright and hearts are gay,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">And April breezes blow.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">In other days ’neath April skies,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Around this tree may joyful cries<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And happy children’s songs arise,<br /></span>
<span class="i3">While April breezes blow.<br /></span>
<span class="i10"><i>D. T. Williamson.</i><br /></span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span></div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">A NATION’S GREATNESS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">What makes a nation truly great?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Not strength of arms, nor men of state,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor vast domains, by conquest won,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That knew not rise nor set of sun;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor sophist’s schools, nor learned clan,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Nor laws that bind the will of man,—<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For these have proved, in ages past,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">But futile dreams that could not last;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And they that boast of such today,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Are fallen, vanquished in the fray,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their glory mingled with the dust,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Their archives stained with crime and lust;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And all that breathed of pomp and pride,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Like the untimely fig, has died.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One thing, alone, restrains, exalts<br /></span>
<span class="i0">A nation and corrects its faults;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">One thing, alone, its life can crown<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And give its destiny renown.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That nation, then, is truly great,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That lives by love, and not by hate;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That bends beneath the chastening rod,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That owns the truth, and looks to God!<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>Edwin Garnett Riley.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p class="cpom">THANKSGIVING</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My heart gives thanks for many things—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For strength to labor day by day,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For sleep that comes when darkness wings<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With evening up the eastern way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">I give deep thanks that I’m at peace<br /></span>
<span class="i2">With kith and kin and neighbors, too;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Dear Lord, for all last year’s increase,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That helped me strive and hope and do.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">My heart gives thanks for many things;<br /></span>
<span class="i2">I know not how to name them all.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">My soul is free from frets and stings,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">My mind from creed and doctrine’s thrall.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For sun and stars, for flowers and streams,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For work and hope and rest and play,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For empty moments given to dreams—<br /></span>
<span class="i2">For these my heart gives thanks today.<br /></span>
<span class="i8"><i>William Stanley Braithwaite.</i><br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>I will conclude this anthology with a selection from our Madagascar
poet, Andrea Razafkeriefo, which, in a happy strain, conveys a very good
philosophy of life—which is especially the Afro-American’s:</p>
<p class="cpom">RAINY DAYS</p>
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">On rainy days I don’t despair,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">But slip into my rocking chair;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With my old pipe and volume rare<br /></span>
<span class="i2">And wade in fiction deep.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">The pitter-patter of the rain<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Upon the roof and window pane<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Comes like a lullaby’s refrain,<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Till soon I’m fast asleep.<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">I’m grateful for the rainy days:<br /></span>
<span class="i2">’Tis only then my fancy plays,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And mem’ry wanders back and strays<br /></span>
<span class="i2">O’er paths I loved so dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span><br /></span>
<span class="i0">The lightning’s flash, the thunder’s peal<br /></span>
<span class="i2">Convinces me that God is real;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">And it’s a wondrous thing to feel<br /></span>
<span class="i2">That he is really near.<br /></span>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>Of the manifold and immense significance of poetry as a form of
spiritual expression the Negro American has lately become profoundly
aware, as this presentation must amply reveal. Not only the industrial
arts are the objects of his ambition, according to the far-looking
doctrine of Tuskegee, but as well those arts which are born of and
express the spiritual traits of mankind, the fine arts—music, painting,
sculpture, dramatics, and poetry. In them all the Negro is winning
distinction. In consequence it would seem that there must dawn upon us,
shaped by the poems of this collection, a new vision of the Negro and a
new appreciation of his spiritual qualities, his human character. A
profounder human sympathy with a greatly hampered, handicapped, and
humiliated people must also ensue from such considerations as these
poems will induce. One of the poets here represented cries out, as if
from a calvary, “We come slow-struggling up the hills of Hell.” Another,
in milder but not less appealing tone, cries: “We climb the slopes of
life with throbbing hearts.”</p>
<p>This appeal, expressed or implicit throughout the entire range of
present-day Negro verse, an appeal sometimes angrily, sometimes
plaintively<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> uttered, an appeal to mankind for fundamental justice and
for human fellowship on the broad basis of kinship of spirit, may
fittingly be the final note of this anthology:</p>
<h4><i>We climb the slopes of life with throbbing hearts.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></h4>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> </p>
<h2>
<a name="INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND"
id="INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND"></a>
INDEX OF AUTHORS<br /><br />INDEX OF AUTHORS INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL AND
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES</h2>
<div class="blockquothang"><p><span class="smcap">Allen, J. Mord.</span>—Born, Montgomery, Ala., March 26, 1875. Schooling
ceased in the middle of high-school. Since seventeen years of age a
boiler-maker. Home, St. Louis, Mo. Authorship: <i>Rhymes, Tales and
Rhymed Tales</i>, Crane and Company, Topeka, Kas., 1906. <a href="#page_48">48</a>-<a href="#page_50">50</a>,
<a href="#page_223">223</a>-<a href="#page_226">226</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Allen, Winston.</span>—<a href="#page_230">230.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bailey, William Edgar.</span>—Born, Salisbury, Mo. Educated in the
Salisbury public schools. Authorship: <i>The Firstling</i>, 1914. <a href="#page_65">65</a>-<a href="#page_67">67</a>,
<a href="#page_213">213</a>-<a href="#page_214">214</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Bell, James Madison.</span>—Born, Gallipolis, Ohio, 1826. Educated in
night schools after reaching manhood. Prominent anti-slavery
orator, friend of John Browne. <i>Poetical Works</i>, with biography by
Bishop B. W. Arnett, 1901. <a href="#page_32">32</a>-<a href="#page_37">37</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Braithwaite, William Stanley.</span>—Born, Boston, Mass., 1878. Mainly
self-educated. His three books of original verse are: <i>Lyrics of
Life and Love</i>, 1904; <i>The House of Falling Leaves</i>, 1908; <i>Sandy
Star and Willie Gee</i>, 1922. In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_105">105</a>-<a href="#page_109">109</a>, <a href="#page_263">263.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Burrell, Benjamin Ebenezer.</span>—Born, Manchester Mountains, Jamaica,
1892. Descended from Mandingo kings on his father’s side, and on
his mother’s from Cromantees and Scotch. Contributor to <i>The
Crusader</i> and other magazines. <a href="#page_249">249</a>-<a href="#page_250">250</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Carmichael, Waverley Turner.</span>—Born, Snow Hill, Ala.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> Educated in
the Snow Hill Institute and Harvard Summer School. Authorship:
<i>From the Heart of a Folk</i>, The Cornhill Company, Boston, 1918. <a href="#page_53">53</a>
<a href="#page_219">219</a>-<a href="#page_220">220</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Clifford, Carrie W.</span>—Born, Chillicothe, Ohio. Educated at Columbus,
O. Has done much editorial and club work. Authorship: <i>The Widening
Light</i>, Walter Reid Co., Boston, 1922. <a href="#page_240">240.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Conner, Charles H.</span>—Born, Grafton, N. Y., 1864. Father, a slave who
found freedom by way of the underground railway. Mainly
self-educated. Worker in the ship-yards, Philadelphia. Authorship:
<i>The Enchanted Valley</i>, published by himself, 1016 S. Cleveland
Ave., Philadelphia, 1917; contributor to magazines. <a href="#page_209">209</a>-<a href="#page_213">213</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Corbett, Maurice Nathaniel.</span>—Born, Yanceyville, N. C., 1859.
Educated in the common schools and Shaw University. Served in North
Carolina Legislature. Delegate to numerous political conventions.
Clerk in Census Bureau, then in the Government Printing Office,
Washington, D. C., until stricken with paralysis in 1919.
Authorship: <i>The Harp of Ethiopia</i>, Nashville, 1914. This is an
epic poem of about 7,500 rhymed lines, narrating the entire history
of the Negro in America. It is a noteworthy undertaking.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Corrothers, James David.</span>—Born, Michigan, 1869. Educated at
Northwestern University, Evanston, Ill., and at Bennett College,
Greensboro, N. C., Minister of the Zion Methodist Episcopal Church.
Died, 1919. Books: <i>Selected Poems</i>, 1907; <i>The Dream and the
Song</i>, 1914. <a href="#page_37">37</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>-<a href="#page_89">89</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cotter, Joseph Seamon, Jr.</span>—Born, Louisville, Ky., 1895. Died,
1919. Books: <i>The Band of Gideon</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> Cornhill Company, 1918; another
volume of poems now in press. <a href="#page_67">67</a>-<a href="#page_68">68</a>, <a href="#page_70">70</a>, <a href="#page_80">80</a>-<a href="#page_84">84</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Cotter, Joseph Seamon, Sr.</span>—Born, Bardstown, Ky., 1861. Educated in
Louisville night school (10 months). Now school principal in
Louisville, member of many societies, author of several books: <i>A
Rhyming</i>, 1895; <i>Links of Friendship</i>, 1898; <i>Caleb, the
Degenerate</i>, 1903; <i>A White Song and a Black One</i>, 1909; <i>Negro
Tales</i>, 1912. In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_52">52</a>, <a href="#page_70">70</a>-<a href="#page_80">80</a>, <a href="#page_220">220</a>-<a href="#page_221">221</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>-<a href="#page_249">249</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dandridge, Raymond Garfield.</span>—Born, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1882.
Educated in Cincinnati grammar and high schools. First devoted to
drawing and painting until paralytic stroke, 1911. Authorship: <i>The
Poet and Other Poems</i>, Cincinnati, 1920. <a href="#page_54">54</a>, <a href="#page_169">169</a>-<a href="#page_173">173</a>, <a href="#page_221">221</a>-<a href="#page_223">223</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dett, R. Nathaniel.</span>—Born of Virginia parents at Drummondsville,
Ontario, Canada, October 11, 1882; studied in various colleges and
conservatories in Canada and the United States. Director of music
at Lane College, Mississippi, Lincoln Institute, Missouri, and at
Hampton Institute, Virginia, his present position. <a href="#page_214">214</a>-<a href="#page_217">217</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">DuBois, W. E. Burghardt.</span>—Born, Great Barrington, Mass., 1868.
Education: Fisk University, A. B.; Harvard, A. B., A. M., and Ph.
D.; Berlin. Professor of economics and history in Atlanta
University, 1896-1910. Now editor of <i>The Crisis</i>, New York, Books:
<i>The Souls of Black Folk</i>, 1903; <i>Darkwater</i>, 1919, and numerous
others. In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_201">201</a>-<a href="#page_205">205</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dunbar, Paul Laurence.</span>—1872-1906. <a href="#page_37">37</a>, <a href="#page_38">38</a>-<a href="#page_48">48</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dunbar-Nelson, Alice Ruth Moore</span> (née).—Born, New Orleans, 1875.
Education: in New Orleans public<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> schools and Straight University,
and later in several northern universities. Taught in New Orleans,
Washington, and Brooklyn, and other cities. Married Paul Laurence
Dunbar, 1898. At present Managing Editor of Philadelphia and
Wilmington <i>Advocate</i>. Books: <i>Violets and Other Tales</i>, New
Orleans, 1894; <i>The Goodness of St. Rocque</i>, Dodd, Mead & Co.,
1899; <i>Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence</i>, 1913; <i>The Dunbar Speaker
and Entertainer</i>, 1920. Contributor to numerous magazines. <a href="#page_144">144</a>-<a href="#page_148">148</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Dungee, Roscoe Riley.</span>—<a href="#page_58">58</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Este, Charles H.</span>—<a href="#page_57">57</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fauset, Miss Jessie.</span>—Born, Philadelphia. Education: A. B.,
Cornell, Phi Beta Kappa; A. M., University of Pennsylvania; student
of the Guilde Internationale, Paris. Interpreter of the Second
Pan-African Congress. Literary Editor of <i>The Crisis</i>. <a href="#page_160">160</a>-<a href="#page_162">162</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fenner, John J., Jr.</span>—<a href="#page_245">245.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fisher, Leland Milton.</span>—Born, Humboldt, Tenn., 1875. Died, under
thirty years of age, at Evansville, Ind., where he edited a
newspaper. Left behind an unpublished volume of poems. <a href="#page_189">189</a>-<a href="#page_190">190</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Fleming, Mrs. Sarah Lee Brown.</span>—<i>Clouds and Sunshine</i>, The Cornhill
Company, Boston, 1920.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">French, James Edgar.</span>—Born in Kentucky, studied for the ministry,
died young. <a href="#page_253">253</a>-<a href="#page_254">254</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Grimké, Miss Angelina Weld.</span>—Born, Boston, Mass., 1880. Educated in
various schools of several states, including the Girls’ Latin
School of Boston and the Boston Normal School of Gymnastics. Now
teacher of English in the Dunbar High School, Washington, D. C.
Authorship: <i>Rachel</i>, a prose drama, Cornhill Co., Boston, 1921;
poems and short stories uncollected. <a href="#page_152">152</a>-<a href="#page_156">156</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Grimké, Mrs. Charlotte Forten.</span>—Born, Philadelphia, 1837 (née
Forten). Educated in the Normal School at Salem, Mass. She was a
contributor to various magazines, including <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i>
and <i>The New England Magazine</i>. Poems uncollected. <a href="#page_155">155</a>-<a href="#page_156">156</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Hammon, Jupiter.</span>—Born, c. 1720. “The first member of the Negro
race to write and publish poetry in this country.” Extant poems:
<i>An Evening Thought</i>, 1760; <i>An Address to Miss Phillis Wheatley</i>,
1778; <i>A Poem for Children with Thoughts on Death</i>, 1782; <i>The Kind
Master and the Dutiful Servant</i> (date unknown.) These are included
in Oscar Wegelin’s <i>Jupiter Hammon, American Negro Poet</i>, New York,
1915. <a href="#page_20">20</a>-<a href="#page_21">21</a>, <a href="#page_23">23.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Hammond, Mrs. J. W.</span>—Home, Omaha, Neb. Occupation: Trained nurse.
<a href="#page_142">142</a>-<a href="#page_144">144</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Harper, Mrs. Frances Ellen Watkins</span> (née).—Born, Baltimore, Md., of
free parents, 1825. Died, Philadelphia, 1911. Educated in a school
in Baltimore for free colored children, and by her uncle, William
Watkins. Married Fenton Harper, 1860. From about 1851 devoted
herself to the cause of freedom for the slaves. Authorship: <i>Poems
on Miscellaneous Subjects</i>, Philadelphia, 1857; <i>Poems</i>,
Philadelphia, 1900. <a href="#page_26">26</a>-<a href="#page_32">32</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Harris, Leon R.</span>—Born, Cambridge, Ohio, 1886. First years spent in
an orphanage, where he got the rudiments of education. Then was
farmed out in Kentucky. Running off, he made his way to Berea
College and later to Tuskegee, getting two or three terms at each.
Now editor of the Richmond (Indiana) Blade. Authorship: numerous
short stories in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> magazines; <i>The Steel Makers and Other War Poems</i>
(pamphlet), 1918. <a href="#page_63">63</a>-<a href="#page_64">64</a>, <a href="#page_180">180</a>-<a href="#page_184">184</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Hawkins, Walter Everette.</span>—Born, Warrenton, N. C., 1886. Educated
in public schools. Since 1913 in the city post-office of Washington
D. C. Authorship: <i>Chords and Discords</i>, Richard G. Badger, Boston,
1920. <a href="#page_62">62</a>, <a href="#page_119">119</a>, <a href="#page_126">126</a>, <a href="#page_234">234</a>-<a href="#page_235">235</a>, <a href="#page_240">240.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Hill, Leslie Pinckney.</span>—Born, Lynchburg, Va., 1880. B. A. and M. A.
of Harvard. Teacher at Tuskegee; formerly principal of Manassas
(Va.) Industrial School; now principal of Cheyney (Pa.) State
Normal School. Authorship: <i>The Wings of Oppression</i>, The Stratford
Company, Boston, 1921. <a href="#page_52">52</a>, <a href="#page_131">131</a>-<a href="#page_138">138</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Horton, George M.</span>—Born, North Carolina. Authorship: <i>Poems by a
Slave</i>, 1829. <i>Poetical Works</i>, 1845. Several volumes from 1829 to
1865. <a href="#page_25">25.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Hughes, James C.</span>—<a href="#page_187">187</a>-<a href="#page_189">189</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Hughes, Langston.</span>—Born, Joplin, Mo., February 1, 1902. Ancestry,
Negro and Indian; grand-nephew of Congressman John M. Langston.
Education: High School, Cleveland, O., one year at Columbia
University; traveled in Mexico and Central America. Contributor to
magazines. Home, Jones’s Point, N. Y. Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>.
<a href="#page_199">199</a>-<a href="#page_201">201</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jamison, Roscoe C.</span>—Born, Winchester, Tenn., 1886; died at Phœnix,
Ariz., 1918. Educated at Fisk University. Authorship: <i>Negro
Soldiers and Other Poems</i>, William F. McNeil, South St. Joseph,
Mo., 1918. <a href="#page_191">191</a>-<a href="#page_195">195</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jessye, Miss Eva Alberta.</span>—Born, Coffeyville, Kan., 1897. Educated
in the public schools of several western states; graduated from
Western University, 1914. Director of music in Morgan College,
Balti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>more, 1919. Now teacher of piano, Muskogee, Okla. <a href="#page_68">68</a>-<a href="#page_69">69</a>,
<a href="#page_139">139</a>-<a href="#page_142">142</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Adolphus.</span>—<i>The Silver Chord</i>, Philadelphia, 1915.
<a href="#page_104">104</a>-<a href="#page_105">105</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Charles Bertram.</span>—Born, Callao, Mo., 1880. Educated at
Western College, Macon, Mo.; two summers at Lincoln Institute;
correspondence courses, and a term in the University of Chicago.
Educator and preacher. Authorship: <i>Wind Whisperings</i> (a pamphlet),
1900; <i>The Mantle of Dunbar and Other Poems</i> (a pamphlet), 1918;
<i>Songs of My People</i>, 1918. Home, Moberly, Mo. <a href="#page_52">52</a>, <a href="#page_63">63</a>, <a href="#page_95">95</a>-<a href="#page_99">99</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Fenton.</span>—Born, Chicago, 1888. Educated in the public
schools and University of Chicago. Authorship: <i>A Little Dreaming</i>,
Chicago, 1914; <i>Visions of the Dusk</i>, New York, 1915. <i>Songs of the
Soil</i>, New York, 1916. Editor of <i>The Favorite Magazine</i>, Chicago.
<a href="#page_64">64</a>-<a href="#page_65">65</a>, <a href="#page_99">99</a>-<a href="#page_103">103</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Mrs. Georgia Douglas.</span>—Born, Atlanta, Ga. Educated at
Atlanta University, and in music at Oberlin. Home, Washington, D.
C. Books: <i>The Heart of a Woman</i>, the Cornhill Co., Boston, 1918;
<i>Bronze</i>, B. J. Brimmer Co., Boston, 1922. <a href="#page_61">61</a>, <a href="#page_148">148</a>-<a href="#page_152">152</a>, <a href="#page_232">232</a>-<a href="#page_233">233</a>,
<a href="#page_249">249.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, James Weldon.</span>—Born, Jacksonville, Fla., 1871. Educated at
Atlanta and Columbia Universities. United States consul in
Venezuela and Nicaragua. Author of numerous works. Original verse:
<i>Fifty Years and Other Poems</i>, the Cornhill Company, Boston, 1917.
In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_54">54</a>, <a href="#page_90">90</a>-<a href="#page_95">95</a>, <a href="#page_226">226</a>-<a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a>-<a href="#page_236">236</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Mrs. Mae Smith</span> (née).—Born, Alexandria, Va., 1890. Now
Secretary at the Good Samaritan Orphanage, Newark, N. J.
Contributor of verse to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> papers and magazines. The grandmother of
the poet escaped from slavery in Virginia. She lived to be
ninety-two years old. <a href="#page_57">57</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a>-<a href="#page_252">252</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jones, Edward Smythe.</span>—Authorship: <i>The Sylvan Cabin and Other
Verse</i>, Sherman, French & Co., Boston, 1911. <a href="#page_163">163</a>-<a href="#page_169">169</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jones, Joshua Henry, Jr.</span>—Born, Orangeburg, S. C., 1876. Educated
Central High School, Columbus, O., Ohio State University, Yale, and
Brown. Has served on the editorial staffs of the Providence <i>News</i>,
The Worcester <i>Evening Post</i>, Boston <i>Daily Advertiser</i> and Boston
<i>Post</i>. At present he is on the staff of the Boston <i>Telegram</i>.
Authorship: <i>The Heart of the World</i>, the Stratford Company,
Boston, 1919; <i>Poems of the Four Seas</i>, the Cornhill Company,
Boston, 1921. <a href="#page_113">113</a>-<a href="#page_119">119</a>, <a href="#page_234">234</a>, <a href="#page_256">256</a>-<a href="#page_257">257</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jones, Tilford.</span>—<a href="#page_231">231</a>-<a href="#page_232">232</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jordan, W. Clarence.</span>—<a href="#page_190">190</a>-<a href="#page_191">191</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Jordan, Winifred Virginia.</span>—Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>. <a href="#page_56">56</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lee, Mary Effie.</span>—Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>. <a href="#page_56">56</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lewis, Corinne E.</span>—Student in the Dunbar High School, Washington,
D. C. <a href="#page_255">255.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Lewis, Ethyl.</span>—<a href="#page_60">60</a>-<a href="#page_61">61</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">McClellan, George Marion.</span>—Born, Belfast, Tenn., 1860. Educated at
Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn., of which he became financial
agent. Later, principal of the Paul Dunbar School, Louisville, Ky.
Authorship: <i>The Path of Dreams</i>, John P. Morton, Louisville, Ky.,
1916. <a href="#page_55">55</a>, <a href="#page_173">173</a>-<a href="#page_179">179</a>, <a href="#page_246">246</a>-<a href="#page_247">247</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">McKay, Claude.</span>—Born, Jamaica, 1889. Has resided in the United
States ten or eleven years. Till lately on the editorial staff of
the <i>Liberator</i>. Books: <i>Constab<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> Ballads</i>, London, 1912; <i>Spring
in New Hampshire</i>, London, 1920. <a href="#page_126">126</a>-<a href="#page_131">131</a>, <a href="#page_241">241</a>-<a href="#page_242">242</a>, <a href="#page_244">244.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Margetson, George Reginald.</span>—Born, 1877, at St. Kitts, B. W. I.
<a href="#page_109">109</a>-<a href="#page_111">111</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Means, Sterling M.</span>—Authorship: <i>The Deserted Cabin and Other
Poems</i>, A. B. Caldwell, publisher, Atlanta, 1915. <a href="#page_222">222</a>-<a href="#page_223">223</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Miller, Kelly.</span>—Born, Winsboro, S. C., 1863. Educated at Howard and
Johns Hopkins Universities. Degrees: A. M. and LL. D. Professor and
dean in Howard University. Books: <i>Race Adjustment</i>, 1904; <i>Out of
the House of Bondage</i>, Neale Publishing Co., New York, 1914. In
<i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_206">206</a>-<a href="#page_209">209</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Moore, William.</span>—Contributor to <i>The Favorite Magazine</i>. <a href="#page_111">111</a>-<a href="#page_112">112</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Ray, H. Cordelia.</span>—Authorship: <i>Poems</i>, The Grafton Press, New
York, 1910. <a href="#page_257">257</a>-<a href="#page_260">260</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Razafkeriefo, Andrea.</span>—Born, Washington, D. C., 1895, of
Afro-American mother and Madagascaran father. Educated only in
public elementary school. Regular verse contributor to <i>The
Crusader</i> and <i>The Negro World</i>. <a href="#page_197">197</a>-<a href="#page_198">198</a>, <a href="#page_247">247</a>-<a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_263">263</a>-<a href="#page_264">264</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Reason, Charles L.</span>—Born in New York in 1818. Professor at New York
Central College in New York and head of the Institute for Colored
Youth in Philadelphia. Authorship: <i>Freedom</i>, New York, 1847.
<a href="#page_23">23</a>-<a href="#page_24">24</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Riley, Edwin Garnett.</span>—Contributor to many newspapers and
magazines. <a href="#page_262">262.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Sexton, Will.</span>—Contributor to magazines. <a href="#page_197">197</a>, <a href="#page_233">233</a>-<a href="#page_234">234</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Shackelford, Otis.</span>—Educated at Lincoln Institute, Jefferson City,
Mo. Authorship: <i>Seeking the Best</i> (prose and verse). The verse
part of this volume<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> contains a poem of some 500 lines entitled
“Bits of History in Verse, or A Dream of Freedom Realized,” modeled
on <i>Hiawatha</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Shackelford, Theodore Henry.</span>—Born, Windsor Canada, 1888.
Grandparents were slaves in southern states. At twelve years of age
had had only three terms of school. At twenty-one entered the
Industrial Training School, Downington, Pa., and graduated four
years later. Studied a while at the Philadelphia Art Museum.
Authorship: <i>My Country and Other Poems</i>, Philadelphia, 1918. Died,
Jamaica, N. Y., February 5, 1923. <a href="#page_228">228.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Spencer, Mrs. Anne.</span>—Born, Bramwell, W. Va., 1882. Educated at the
Virginia Seminary, Lynchburg, Va. Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>.
<a href="#page_156">156</a>-<a href="#page_159">159</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Underhill, Irvin W.</span>—Born, Port Clinton, Pa., May 1, 1868. In
boyhood, with irregular schooling, assisted his father, who was
captain of a canal boat. At the age of 37 suddenly lost his sight.
Author of <i>Daddy’s Love and Other Poems</i>, Philadelphia. Home,
Philadelphia. <a href="#page_184">184</a>-<a href="#page_187">187</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Watkins, Lucian B.</span>—Born, Chesterfield, Virginia, 1879. Educated in
public schools of Chesterfield, and at the Virginia Normal and
Industrial Institute, Petersburg. First teacher, then soldier.
Books: <i>Voices of Solitude</i>, 1907, Donohue & Co., Chicago;
<i>Whispering Winds</i>, in manuscript. Died, 1921. <a href="#page_59">59</a>, <a href="#page_236">236</a>-<a href="#page_239">239</a>,
<a href="#page_252">252</a>-<a href="#page_253">253</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Watson, Adeline Carter.</span>—<a href="#page_232">232.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Wheatley, Phillis.</span>—Born in Africa, 1753. Brought as a slave to
Boston, where she died in 1784. Many editions of her poems in her
lifetime. <i>Poems and Letters</i>, New York, 1916. <a href="#page_23">23</a>-<a href="#page_24">24</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Wiggins, Lida Keck.</span>—Authorship: <i>The Life and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> Works of Paul
Laurence Dunbar</i>, J. L. Nichols & Company, Naperville, Ill. <a href="#page_41">41.</a></p>
<p><span class="smcap">Whitman, Albery A.</span>—Born in Kentucky in 1857. Began life as a
Methodist minister. Authorship: <i>The Rape of Florida</i>, <i>Not a Man
and Yet a Man</i>, and <i>Twasnita’s Seminoles</i>. <a href="#page_32">32</a>, <a href="#page_35">35</a>-<a href="#page_36">36</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Williamson, D. T.</span>—<a href="#page_260">260</a>-<a href="#page_261">261</a>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Wilson, Charles P.</span>—Born in Iowa of Kentucky parents, 1885. Printer
and theatrical performer. <a href="#page_179">179</a>-<a href="#page_180">180</a>.</p></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> </p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> </p>
<h2><a name="INDEX_OF_TITLES" id="INDEX_OF_TITLES"></a>INDEX OF TITLES</h2>
<p class="c"><a href="#A">A</a>,
<a href="#B">B</a>,
<a href="#C">C</a>,
<a href="#D">D</a>,
<a href="#E">E</a>,
<a href="#F">F</a>,
<a href="#G">G</a>,
<a href="#H">H</a>,
<a href="#I">I</a>,
<a href="#J">J</a>,
<a href="#L">L</a>,
<a href="#M">M</a>,
<a href="#N">N</a>,
<a href="#O">O</a>,
<a href="#P">P</a>,
<a href="#R">R</a>,
<a href="#S">S</a>,
<a href="#T">T</a>,
<a href="#V">V</a>,
<a href="#W">W</a>,
<a href="#Y">Y</a>.</p>
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="A" id="A"></a>Apology for Wayward Jim.—James C. Hughes,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_188">188</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Ask Me Why I Love You.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_125">125</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">A Song.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_193">193</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">As the Old Year Passed.—William Moore,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_112">112</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">At the Closed Gate of Justice.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_88">88</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">At the Carnival.—Mrs. Anne Spencer,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_158">158</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">At Niagara.—R. Nathaniel Dett,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_216">216</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">At the Spring Dawn.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_154">154</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Autumn Sadness.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="B" id="B"></a>Band of Gideon, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_83">83</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Black Mammy, The.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_236">236</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Black Violinist, The.—Winston Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_230">230</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Bomb Thrower, The.—Will Sexton,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Boy and the Ideal, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_74">74</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Brothers.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_118">118</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="C" id="C"></a>Castles in the Air.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_193">193</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Christmas Cheer.—Miss Corinne E. Lewis,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_255">255</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Chicken in the Bread Tray.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_15">15</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Compensation.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_82">82</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Counting Out.—J. Mord Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_48">48</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Credo.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_119">119</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="D" id="D"></a>Dawn.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Daybreak.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_246">246</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Death of Justice, The.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_123">123</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">De Innah Part.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_221">221</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Don’t-Care Negro, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_220">220</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Dream and the Song, The.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_85">85</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Dreams of the Dreamer, The.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Dunbar.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_37">37</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Dunbar and Cotter.—J. E. French,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_253">253</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="E" id="E"></a>Easter Message, An.—Mrs. Carrie W. Clifford,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_240">240</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Ebon Maid.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_252">252</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Edict, The.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_194">194</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">El Beso.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_154">154</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_41">41</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Eternity.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_172">172</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Expectancy.—William Moore,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_112">112</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="F" id="F"></a>Facts.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_172">172</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Fattening Frogs for Snakes.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Feet of Judas, The.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_177">177</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Flag of the Free.—E. W. Jones,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">For You Sweetheart.—L. M. Fisher,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Foscati.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="G" id="G"></a>Goodbye, Old Year.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_256">256</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="H" id="H"></a>Harlem Dancer, The.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_128">128</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Heart of the World, The.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Hero of the Road.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_122">122</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Hills of Sewanee, The.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Hopelessness.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_195">195</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="I" id="I"></a>If We Must Die.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_241">241</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">In Bondage.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_129">129</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">In Memory of Katie Reynolds.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_178">178</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">In Spite of Death.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_62">62</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">In the Heart of a Rose.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_54">54</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">I Played on David’s Harp.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_65">65</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">I See and Am Satisfied.—Kelly Miller,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_207">207</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">I Sit and Sew.—Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_145">145</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">It’s All Through Life.—W. T. Carmichael,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_53">53</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">It’s a Long Way.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_106">106</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">I’ve Loved and Lost.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="J" id="J"></a>Juba.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_16">16</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="L" id="L"></a>Life.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_43">43</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Life of the Spirit, The.—Charles H. Conner,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_210">210</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Light of Victory.—George Reginald Margetson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_110">110</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Lights at Carney’s Point, The.—Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_146">146</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Litany of Atlanta, A.—W. E. B. DuBois,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_202">202</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Loneliness.—Miss Winifred Virginia Jordan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_56">56</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Lynching, The.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_128">128</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="M" id="M"></a>Mammy’s Baby Scared.—W. T. Carmichael,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_219">219</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Mater Dolorosa.—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_134">134</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Message to the Modern Pharaohs.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_239">239</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Months, The.—Miss H. Cordelia Ray,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_257">257</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Mother, The.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_249">249</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">My Lady’s Lips.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">My People.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Mulatto’s Song, The.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_101">101</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Mulatto to His Critics, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_67">67</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="N" id="N"></a>Nation’s Greatness, A.—Edwin G. Riley,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_262">262</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Negro, The.—Langston Hughes,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_200">200</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Negro, The.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_244">244</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Negro Child, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_248">248</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Negro Church, The.—Andrea Razafkeriefo,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_198">198</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Negro Woman, The.—Andrea Razafkeriefo,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_247">247</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Negro Singer, The.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_89">89</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">New Day, The.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_102">102</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">New Negro, The.—Will Sexton,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">New Negro, The.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_236">236</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="O" id="O"></a>Octoroon, The.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Ode to Ethiopia.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_44">44</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Oh, My Way and Thy Way.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Old Plantation Grave, The.—S. M. Means,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Ole Deserted Cabin, De.—S. M. Means,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_223">223</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Old Friends.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_97">97</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Old Jim Crow.—Anonymous,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_231">231</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Optimist, The.—Mrs. J. W. Hammond,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_143">143</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Oriflamme.—Miss Jessie Fauset,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_162">162</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">O Southland.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_92">92</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="P" id="P"></a>Peace.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_61">61</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Plaint of the Factory Child, The.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_101">101</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Poet, The.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_170">170</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Prayer of the Race That God Made Black, A.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_59">59</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Psalm of the Uplift, The.—J. Mord Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_50">50</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Puppet-Player, The.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="R" id="R"></a>Rain Song, A.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Rainy Days.—Andrea Razafkeriefo,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_263">263</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Rain Music.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Rise! Young Negro—Rise!—John J. Fenner, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_245">245</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="S" id="S"></a>Sandy Star.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_106">106</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Self-Determination.—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_137">137</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">She Hugged Me.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_17">17</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Singer, The.—Miss Eva A. Jessye,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_69">69</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Slump, The.—W. E. Bailey,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_65">65</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Smothered Fires.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_150">150</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Somebody’s Child.—Charles P. Wilson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_179">179</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">So Much.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_98">98</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Soul and Star.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_96">96</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Southern Love Song, A.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_115">115</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Spring in New Hampshire.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Spring with the Teacher.—Miss Eva A. Jessye,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Steel Makers, The.—Leon R. Harris,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_182">182</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Sunset.—Miss Mary Effie Lee,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_56">56</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="T" id="T"></a>Thanking God.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_109">109</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Thanksgiving.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_262">262</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">The Flowers Take the Tears.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_76">76</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">These Are My People.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_100">100</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Threshing Floor, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_75">75</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Time to Die.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_171">171</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To——.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_171">171</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To a Negro Mother.—Ben E. Burrell,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_249">249</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To America.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_53">53</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To a Caged Canary....—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_136">136</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To a Nobly-Gifted Singer.—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_137">137</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To a Rosebud.—Miss Eva A. Jessye,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_141">141</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To a Wild Rose.—W. E. Bailey,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_213">213</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To Hollyhocks.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To My Grandmother.—Mrs. Mae Smith Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_251">251</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To My Lost Child.—Will Sexton,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_233">233</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To My Neighbor Boy.—Mrs. J. W. Hammond,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_143">143</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To My Son.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_232">232</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To Keep the Memory of Charlotte Forten Grimké.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_155">155</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">To Our Boys.—Irvin W. Underhill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Truth.—Mrs. Frances E. W. Harper,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_28">28</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Turn Out the Light.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_114">114</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="V" id="V"></a>Vashti.—Mrs. Frances E. W. Harper,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_30">30</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Victim of Microbes, A.—J. Mord Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_224">224</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Violets.—Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_55">55</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="W" id="W"></a>Want of You, The.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_154">154</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">We Wear the Mask.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_47">47</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">What Is the Negro Doing?—W. Clarence Jordan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">What Need Have I for Memory?—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_149">149</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">While April Breezes Blow.—D. T. Williamson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_260">260</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">Winter Twilight, A.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top">With the Lark.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_46">46</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="Y" id="Y"></a>Young Warrior, The.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_94">94</a></td></tr>
<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="Z" id="Z"></a>Zalka Peetruza.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_180">180</a></td></tr>
</table>
<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Happily a great number of these, about three hundred and
fifty, accompanied by an essay setting forth their nature, origin, and
elements, are now made accessible in <i>Negro Folk Rhymes</i>, by Thomas W.
Talley, of Fisk University; the Macmillan Company, publishers, 1922.</p></div>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> We are enabled to give the following poems by the kind
permission of Dodd, Mead and Company, the publishers of Dunbar’s works.</p></div>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> <i>The Dunbar Speaker and Entertainer</i>, containing the best
prose and poetic selections by and about the Negro Race, with programs
arranged for special entertainments. Edited by Alice Moore
Dunbar-Nelson. J. L. Nichols & Co., Naperville, Ill.</p></div>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> <i>Bronze</i> has now been published. See Index of Authors.</p></div>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> <i>A Short History of the American Negro.</i> By Benjamin
Brawley. The Macmillan Company.</p></div>
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Published by Harcourt, Brace & Company, by whose kind
permission I use this selection.</p></div>
</div>
<hr class="full" />
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60003 ***</div>
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